














































































































































Glass 

Book 


-PZ3 
• M/9/5 












* 




\ 










J 





















A 











ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


BY THE SAME AUTHOR 


WHAT NEXT ? 

ROMANCE TO THE RESCUE 
BILL THE BACHELOR 



ACCORDING TO 

GIBSON 


BY 


DENIS MACKAIL 

■I 



BOSTON & NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 


1923 



oif\ 

si 



PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I. The Invention of Professor Salt . i 

II. Gibson and the Ghost .... 24 

III. Gibson and the Rivals .... 52 

IV. The Story of Colonel Turpentine 80 

V. Gibson and the Specialist . . . 104 

VI. The Mystery of the Managing 

Director.134 

VII. Gibson and the Wager .... 162 

VIII. Gibson and the Blue Emerald . . 194 

IX. The Strange Behaviour of Henry 

Gibson.228 

X. Gibson’s Last Words.259 












ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


I 

THE INVENTION OF PROFESSOR SALT 

I F I had been writing of these affairs even ten 
years ago, I suppose I should have had to begin 
with a more or less successful attempt at off¬ 
handedness in referring to my membership of the 
Caviare Club. Good ta£le and gentlemanly feeling 
might even have demanded that I alluded to it 
under an alias. But the war has changed all that. 
No club can exi£t without members, and the 
nomination book at the Caviare, with its recurrent 
entries of “ Killed in Aftion ” or “ Withdrawn,” 
tells its own £lory. In the old days a candidate 
might expedt to wait anything up to twenty years 
before reaching the te£l of eledtion; but although 
things are not quite as bad as they were, many 
of the younger members have found themselves 
faced with a request for the entrance fee within as 
many months. The war has, of course, brought 
about worse things than this; but what would the 

I B 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


originals of some of those portraits in the coffee- 
room think, if the news were to reach them that the 
committee have recently set aside an apartment in 
which one may, by giving notice in advance, enter¬ 
tain ladies at tea ? From such imaginings one 
turns hastily away. 

Nevertheless the old traditions ill linger. 
Weighed down by the architecture and decoration 
of the place, even the newest arrivals address each 
other in hushed tones. If a servant fails to catch 
one's eye, one does not call to him; one waits for 
him to return. The loudest noise which has ever 
disturbed the peace of these rooms is Still produced 
by Admiral Bonchurch clearing his throat, or by 
Sir Wolfram Muskett blowing his nose. And, 
above all, the old British negation of club life, 
which has made these institutions what they are, 
survives unchanged. One would as soon think of 
speaking to a Stranger in a doctor’s waiting-room 
as of addressing a fellow member of the Caviare 
without an introduction. 

In such circumstances it will be understood that 
in the course of months or years one becomes faintly 
familiar with the outward forms of quite a number 
of people, without ever exactly reaching the point 
of wondering who they are. Every now and then 
one meets one of them in some other surroundings, 

2 


THE INVENTION OF PROFESSOR SALT 


and it is almost as much of a shock to find that they 
are possessed of voices and even opinions as it 
would be in the case of the elks and elands, whose 
moth-eaten heads decorate the upper strata of the 
smoking-room. I shall never forget my surprise 
on going to visit a well-known publisher once, at 
discovering that we had dozed on contiguous sofas 
for many years without a suspicion of each other’s 
identity. I saw at once that he also recognized me, 
but of course we didn’t refer to it. One never does. 

Looking back now, it is impossible to say for 
how long I had let the tired angularity and the 
always faintly surprised countenance of Henry 
Gibson sink gradually into my mind, before the 
occasion when he firCt spoke to me. But it is quite 
certain that I should have been content to let the 
slight curiosity which I admit that I felt about him 
gnaw gently at my vitals until the end of his or my 
existence, if he had not at laSt taken this unexpected 
Step. Yet even now there is very little concerning 
him which I can feel sure that I know. Of one side 
of his life I did, it is true, later on obtain details 
from a source whose accuracy is above suspicion. 
But even this informant confesses to a complete 
ignorance as to what his original circumstances may 
have been. 

Gibson’s own evidence is, as I can hardly fail to 

3 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


convince you, untrustworthy to the very highest 
degree. Even if there were any grain of truth to 
be found in the experiences which he confided to 
me during the six months of our more intimate 
acquaintanceship, I have absolutely no means of 
sifting such grain from the chaff in which it was 
concealed. His easy assumption of the different 
roles in which at one time and another he depidled 
himself, and his apparent familiarity with a number 
of foreign countries, may have been, and probably 
were, nothing more than a remnant of his Stock-in- 
trade in the one profession which I have real proof 
that he ever followed. Even his age is involved in 
impenetrable myStery. For if at one time he spoke 
of himself as if for many years he had been little 
more than a doddering spedlator at the comedy of 
life, then as like as not he would £lartle me at our 
next meeting by professing himself unable to re¬ 
member even the moSt recent and outstanding 
events in the hiStory of our own times. 

I never discovered that he had any friends. 
And though he once mentioned a brother, I have 
the gravest doubts whether any such person ever 
really existed. In short, so far as I am concerned, 
my knowledge of his paSt is—with the exception 
which I have ju£I mentioned, and shall hope to 
describe to you later—confined to the totally irre- 

4 


THE INVENTION OF PROFESSOR SALT 


concilable and often patently untruthful state¬ 
ments which I obtained from the creature himself. 
Here and there I have sometimes thought that I 
detected a shadowy basis of fa£t. It is possible that 
you may come to feel the same impression your¬ 
self. But this is, quite frankly, a matter of absolute 
speculation; and since once one begins speculating 
about Gibson there is very little reason why one 
should ever Slop, I would prefer—if I may—to tell 
you what happened on the occasion when it firSl 
entered his head to address me. 

It began suddenly, as I have said, by his cross¬ 
ing the smoking-room and dropping—collapsing 
would perhaps be a better word—into the seat 
next my own. 

“ This is very sad news,” he remarked, “ about 
poor old Professor Salt.” 

“ I—I’m afraid I haven’t heard about it,” I 
answered, considerably puzzled by this unexpe£led 
opening. 

“ Dear, dear,” said Gibson; “ I should have 
thought you would have been bound to see it. It 
was in the Times , I know. He’s dead. Died quite 
suddenly. Pneumonia. But perhaps you didn’t 
know him ? ” 

“ No,” I replied. “ I’m afraid I didn’t.” And 
the name was, indeed, completely strange to me. 

S 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


“ Ah,” said Gibson. He seemed lodt in a pro¬ 
found gloom, and I was judt wondering whether it 
would be thought rude if I left him to his mournful 
thoughts when he added, suddenly: “ I had a very 
odd experience at his house once. Very strange 
indeed.” 

“ Oh,” I said, politely. 

“ Yes,” he continued. “ It was in the days when 
I was doing newspaper work. I was, in fadt, in 
that uncomfortable position where one is on the 
staff, but off the salary lidt. You know what I 
mean ? No print, no pay.” 

He allowed himself one more reminiscent pause, 
and then started off on what I took to be the body 
of the dtory. 

& & & Ak. & 

#I» *1* 7J* vjv 

It mudt (said Gibson) have been quite twenty 
years ago. Some foreigner had judt been ledluring 
here in London on his discoveries in connexion 
with colour measurement. Old Salt wrote a letter 
to the paper I was with at the time, pointing out 
that he had announced exadtly the same thing at a 
meeting of the Royal Society in ’93. We wanted 
to print his letter, because it looked like a good 
thing for the old country; but it would have run 
to nearly three columns, and as it was all in one 

6 


THE INVENTION OF PROFESSOR SALT 


paragraph and plastered with technicalities from 
£tart to finish, nobody knew how to cut it. 

In those days I had an idea that if I made myself 
useful enough to the sub-editors, I might get taken 
on to the permanent ftaff. I can’t think where I 
got this notion from, but there it was, and when 
this difficulty arose, I suggested that I should go 
down and interview old Salt, and try and find out, 
if I could, what exa&ly he was getting at. Nobody 
said “ Don’t,” and he only lived a little way out of 
London, so I went off there straight away. 

I found the house easily enough, and I rang the 
bell. The door was opened by the mo£t awfully 
pretty girl, in a mod awfully odd sort of dress. A 
kind of yellow overall. I shall never know whether 
she was Salt’s laboratory assi£lant or Mrs. Salt’s 
lady help, but anyhow I handed her my card with 
the name of the newspaper printed on it, and asked 
if I could see the Professor. 

She took me down a long corridor and knocked 
on a door at the end. I heard somebody growling 
inside, and then she opened the door and I walked 
in. 

The room was full of smells and apparatus and 
card indexes and bottles and all that sort of junk. 
And in the middle of it all was old Salt himself. 

He mud have been over fifty at this time, but 

7 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


you wouldn’t have guessed it by looking at him. 
For one thing he, also, was dressed in a kind of 
wrapper or overall that hid his shape pretty com¬ 
pletely, and for another thing he had the mo£t 
extraordinarily young-looking eyes. The re£t of 
his face might have been any age, but his eyes— 
well, I’ve seen that look in a schoolboy; often. 

I told him at once that I’d been asked by my 
paper to come and see him about his discovery, but 
he hardly waited for me to finish. And his three- 
column letter was absolute, plain, one-syllable 
English compared with the explanation which he 
gave me now. I had my notebook, and I tried to 
catch hold of even one intelligible sentence to take 
away with me; but it was hopeless. I ju£l had to 
sfand there and let those unspeakable technical 
terms and symbols and fragments of what sounded 
like algebra pour over me in floods. 

After what felt like hours, he suddenly 
flopped. 

“ That’s the whole £tory,” he said. 

“ Thank you,” I replied. I felt that I’d wailed 
a considerable amount of his time and £lill more 
of my own, and that I hadn’t done either myself 
or my newspaper the very slightest bit of good. I 
was pretty sick; but having come all that way, I 
thought I’d ju£t have one more try, and see if I 

8 


THE INVENTION OF PROFESSOR SALT 


couldn’t get away with something that could be 
turned into print. 

“ And are you at work on any further inventions, 
Professor Salt ? ” I asked, looking round the room 
at the extraordinary mess with which it was filled. 

“ Hundreds,” he said. 

“ Is there anything here,” I went on, “ about 
which you could tell me, that would be of general 
interest to the readers of my paper ? ” 

It was a pretty rash thing to risk starting him off 
again like this, but I was glad I’d done it—after¬ 
wards. 

“ Why, yes,” he said. “ I think you might very 
well do a series of articles on my work. Only 
perhaps it would be better if I wrote them myself. 
Something in the nature of the letter we were dis¬ 
cussing, perhaps ? ” 

“ Heaven forbid! ” I said to myself; and to get 
him off this idea, I pointed to a contraption on 
wheels which was standing in a bow window. It 
had masses of piping and screws and handles for 
adjusting it, and little bits of glass twinkling in it 
here and there, and a kind of large trumpet arrange¬ 
ment at each end. 

“ Now what do you use that for ? ” I asked. 

“ Ah,” said Professor Salt. “ That certainly is 
an invention of my own; but I don’t know that it 

9 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


serves any special end in itself, or has any praftical 

value in the ordinary sense. I use it in connexion 

¥ 

with my other work for measuring rays of light.” 

He crossed over to the window, and began 
twiddling with the wheels and screws. 

“ You see, the ray enters here,” he went on, 
pointing to one of the trumpets, “ and it is broken 
up and kept waiting, as one might say, by means of 
this special apparatus; and as it passes through, it 
is registered on graded sensitized paper which is 
kept on a reel in the middle here.” 

I tried to look as if I understood, and to help 
with this illusion I repeated two of the simpler 
words which he had used. 

“ Kept waiting,” I said. “ Ah, yes.” 

“ Yes,” said Professor Salt; “ and that’s juSt the 
drawback of the thing. I have had to adapt it to 
slow the light rays down, because that’s an essential 
principle of the process; but you see the result ? ” 

“ I’m afraid I don’t,” I answered. 

He was patience itself in his explanation. 

“ Why,” he said, “ the necessary result is that 
the machine has to be carefully set, each time, nearly 
two days before one wants to use it. A ray of light 
entering at this aperture takes forty-six hours 
before it emerges at the other end.” 

I was catching on. 

io 


THE INVENTION OF PROFESSOR SALT 


“ Do you mean to tell me,” I asked, “ that light 
is in that box now, which started going through it 
on Wednesday ? ” 

“ Of course,” he said, politely. 

“ And that if I look in at one of those holes, I 
shall see the day before yesterday ? ” 

“ Certainly,” he said. “ That is, if I remove the 
recording apparatus firSt.” 

“ And you mean to say,” I went on, “ that that 
invention has no pradtical value. Why, good 
heavens, juSt think of the uses it could be put to! 
And why Stop at forty-six hours ? Why not make 
it forty-six days, or months, or years ? JuSt 
imagine looking into that box and seeing the Great 
Exhibition, or the Battle of Waterloo, or your own 
great-grandparents’ wedding! It’s the mod extra¬ 
ordinary invention there’s ever been. What’s the 
value of a film record compared with this ? Why, 
you’d be seeing the adtual thing! ” 

I muSt admit that the Professor didn’t seem par¬ 
ticularly excited. 

“ I think you rather overestimate its potentiali¬ 
ties,” he said. “ It is true that one sees what you 
describe as the adtual thing; but the field of vision 
is necessarily extremely limited, and there would be 
almoSt insuperable practical difficulties in extend¬ 
ing either this or the time occupied in passing 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


through the apparatus. In fadl, I think I may say 
that I have already gone as far as it is possible to go, 
without distorting and altering the whole charadter 
of the rays.” 

“ But even so,” I went on, determined to find 
my news-Story if I could, “ there mud be an enor¬ 
mous area of practical utility to which you could 
put an invention of this sort, without confining 
yourself to the mere measurement of light, or 
whatever its primary purpose is. For example, say 
a murder is committed. There is no trace of the 
criminal, but the dodtors can swear that the man 
has not been dead more than so many hours. 
Along comes the detedlive, with one of your 
machines, adjuSts it to the right length of time, 
looks through it, and sees the murderer. Or better 
Still, attaches a cinematograph camera to it and 
adtually takes a pidtorial record of the crime, which 
can be reeled off afterwards in court. What do 
you say to that ? ” 

Professor Salt shook his head. 

“ No, no,” he said. “ That wouldn’t do. You 
see, when the detedlive looked into the machine, 
he would only see what the machine had seen firSt. 
So that unless your murder had been committed 
adtually exadlly in front of it, it wouldn’t be any 
help at all. Look here,” he added, “I’ll show you.” 

12 


THE INVENTION OF PROFESSOR SALT 


He unfastened a kind of door in the side of the 
affair, and lifted out what I took to be the recording 
part of the works—a sort of black box, with a clock 
ticking away on the top of it. 

“ Now then,” he went on. “ You look in this 
end.” 

I Stooped down and peered into the hole at 
which he pointed. 

“ Why, it’s all green,” I said. “ It looks like a 
bit of a garden.” 

“ Exa&ly,” said the Professor. “ That’s a 
corner of my orchard. I was using the apparatus 
out of doors two days ago because the light is so 
much purer there.” 

The field of vision was, as he had said, extremely 
limited, and the scale of everything was consider¬ 
ably reduced. It was rather like looking through 
the wrong end of a telescope. But for all that, I 
could see unmistakable trees and a bit of garden 
wall, and the leaves on the neareSt tree were moving 
as though there were a light breeze. 

“By Jove! ” I said. “ That’s pretty wonder¬ 
ful.” And as I said this, two things happened. 
The firSt thing was that I was conscious that some¬ 
one had come into the room behind me, and I 
heard Professor Salt say, “ This is a gentleman 
from a newspaper, dear.” The second thing was 

l 3 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


the simultaneous appearance in the light-measuring 
apparatus of a human figure. I recognized it 
instantly, for surely no two people could have worn 
and succeeded in carrying off in jud that way that 
brilliant yellow overall. It was the pretty girl who 
had opened the door to me. She crossed the back¬ 
ground of the pidure and disappeared behind a tree. 

“ By Jove! ” I said again. “ That’s the mod; 
extraordinary thing that I’ve ever seen.” And I 
took my head out of the mouth of the trumpef and 
draightened my back. 

Professor Salt was beaming with a kind of 
nervous pleasure at my enthusiasm, and I now saw 
that there was danding by his side one of the mod 
forbidding-looking women that it has ever been 
my lot to behold. Tall and sinider, the word 
“ bully ” seemed to be written in every feature of 
her face. 

“ Are you being kind enough to look at Charlie’s 
nonsense ? ” she asked me, in a voice that made my 
blood run cold. 

“ This is my wife, Mr.—er—Gibson,” inter¬ 
posed the Professor. 

I held out my hand, but Mrs. Salt took no 
notice of it. Though I was naturally put out by 
this piece of purposeless rudeness, I tried not to 
show it. 




THE INVENTION OF PROFESSOR SALT 


“ It seems anything but nonsense to me, Mrs. 
Salt,” I said. ‘ ‘ I can imagine an absolute fortune 
being made out of this thing if it were properly 
developed.” 

Mrs. Salt didn’t actually call me a fool and a liar 
in so many words, but the sniff with which she 
favoured me did quite as well. 

“ But ju£t look at it,” I protected. “ The picture 
is small, I admit, but the detail and colour are 
perfeft.” 

And to encourage her, I put my head back in the 
opening and took another look myself. 

If I had had any doubts before as to Professor 
Salt’s utter incapacity for dealing with the practical 
side of his invention, they were instantly confirmed. 
The whole circle of light was filled with a close-up 
of Salt himself and the young woman in yellow. 
They had completely carried out the requirements 
of my hypothetical murderer; but with this im¬ 
portant difference. They were embracing. Fur¬ 
ther, they were embracing in the quiet, earnest, 
but apparently indissoluble manner which you 
may observe, if you care to, on park benches after 
sunset. 

I was aghast at the possibilities of this situation, 
but one thing I made up my mind to at once. 
Only physical force should remove my head from 

15 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


that aperture until either the Professor’s pictured 
embrace should come to an end, or Mrs. Salt 
should leave the laboratory. 

But physical force was exactly what did it. 
Mistrusting my ability to make suitable comments 
on the sight which I beheld, I preserved an intense 
and absorbed silence; and, as I ought to have 
guessed, it was precisely this silence that Mrs. 
Salt could not tolerate. I was having the identical 
effeft on her that you have on me, when you sit 
here reading a new number of Punch that I haven’t 
seen. 

“ What are you looking at, Mr. Gibson ? ” I 
heard her ask. 

I mumbled out some muffled reply, and all the 
time the close-up remained unaltered and practic¬ 
ally immovable. 

The next thing that I knew was that I had been 
plucked backwards by the tail of my coat and 
dashed againt the edge of the bow window. In 
less time than it takes to tell, and in considerably 
less time than I would have needed to find a solution 
for the crisis which was threatening the domestic 
life of the Salts, Mrs. Salt had assumed my position 
in front of the apparatus, and her head had dis¬ 
appeared into the hole. 

The Professor was £till beaming in gentle self- 

16 


THE INVENTION OF PROFESSOR SALT 


satisfaction at nothing in particular, and if ever I 
pitied a man, I pitied him at that moment. True, 
there seemed to be jud one chance in a million that 
the apparently interminable embrace had in fad 
ceased at the moment that I had taken leave of it; 
but the odds were incalculably weighted in the 
other direction. 

The next infant I knew the word. 

Mrs. Salt emerged from the opening, pale with 
fury. She said nothing for a moment, but she 
caught hold of her husband by the back of the 
neck, and with irresistible Strength forced his head 
into the aperture where hers and mine had jud 
been. 

Then she spoke. 

“ Charles,” she said, in a terrible voice, “ what 
is the meaning of this ? ” 

My heart went out to the unfortunate scientid. 
Criminal or foolish as his adion may appear to you 
—and mind you, you have no idea how pretty that 
girl in the overall was—you could not but have 
felt sorry for him if you had seen Mrs. Salt at this 
moment. 

From the inside of the apparatus, where Pro¬ 
fessor Salt’s head was, there came a kind of 
drangled bleating, and his wife released her grip. 
Immediately he emerged. 

17 


c 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


“ I don’t understand you, my dear,” he said, 
avoiding, as it seemed to me, my eye. “ The 
meaning of what ? ” 

“ Of that picture,” said Mrs. Salt; and once 
again she took her turn at the opening. But she 
had swung round again in an inStant. 

“ You’ve done something to it,” she said. “ It’s 
gone.” 

“ What’s gone ? ” asked the Professor. 

His hair was ruffled, and the back of his neck 
Still bore the marks of his wife’s fingers, but from 
the tone of his voice I knew what had happened. 
Whether temporarily or permanently, the guilty 
couple had, two days before, shifted out of the 
machine’s line of sight, and their disappearance 
had been accurately registered and recorded. 

“ Don’t speak to me like that, Charles,” said 
Mrs. Salt. “ You know perfectly well what I 
mean. There’s a terrible, vulgar photograph 
somewhere in this box, and I intend to see it.” 

“ But, my dear-” 

“ Take it out at once and show it to me,” said 
Mrs. Salt. “ After that, we will discuss what is to 
be done.” 

“ But there isn’t any photograph,” persisted the 
Professor. 

“ Nonsense, Charles, I have seen it.” (Gibson’s 

18 



THE INVENTION OF PROFESSOR SALT 


rendering of the wife was terrific.) “ This gentle¬ 
man will help you to take the thing to pieces, if 
necessary; but understand, I shall not leave this 
room until I have that photograph in my hands.” 

The Professor shrugged his shoulders and 
looked at me. 

“ I am quite ready to help in any way you wish,” 
I said. 

So old Salt got out his tool-box and to it we 
went. It muSt have taken the beSt part of an hour’s 
work before the apparatus had been reduced to its 
component parts, and the whole of that time Mrs. 
Salt sat with her eyes fixed on us. By the time we 
had finished, the entire floor was covered with pipes 
and tubes and screws and lenses, but of the vulgar 
photograph there was, naturally, not a sign. 

Professor Salt bowed courteously to his wife. 

“ There you are, my dear,” he said. “ You’ve 
seen the whole thing taken to bits. You can 
search me and you can search the floor and you can 
search Mr. Gibson. And when you’ve done that, 
I hope you’ll be satisfied.” 

She gave a contemptuous snort. 

“ There’s no need for me to do that,” she said. 
“ I know how to believe my own eyes. Tell me, 
now, Mr. Gibson, what did you see when you 
looked into that machine ? ” 

19 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


Well, I hadn’t gone down into the country that 
day to make trouble between man and wife, so I 
said: “ Nothing that I could describe, Mrs. Salt. 
Only some very beautiful colours.” 

“ Bah ! ” said Mrs. Salt, and kicking aside the 
debris on the floor, she went straight out of the 
room. 

“ Now then, Professor,” I said, as the door closed 
behind her. “ I think you owe me something for 
this.” 

“ Certainly, Mr. Gibson,” he replied. “ I can 
hardly express my obligation to you.” 

“ Well,” I answered, “ I’m not interested in 
your private affairs. I’m a newspaper man fitet 
and la£t. I want an exclusive description of this 
invention from you, and your undertaking that you 
won’t breathe a word about it to a soul until we’ve 
prepared the ground for the £tory we’re going to 
make out of it.” 

Professor Salt looked at me in a puzzled kind of 
way. 

“ I’m afraid I don’t quite follow,” he said. 
“ What invention are you talking about ? ” 

“ Come, come, Professor,” I said. “ Don’t try 
to beat about the bush. I’m talking about the 
machine which you and I have ju^t taken to pieces.” 

“ Oh, are you ? ” he answered. “ Well, I’ll take 

20 


THE INVENTION OF PROFESSOR SALT 


my chance of your finding out how to put it to¬ 
gether again, but I’ll tell you one thing; and that 
is that no power on earth will ever make me do so. 
Is that perfectly clear ? ” 

“ But, Professor,” I said. “ You can’t mean it. 
You can’t realize its value. You don’t know what 
you’re doing ! ” 

“ My dear Mr. Gibson,” he replied, “ you don’t 
know my wife. And now there’s ju£t time for you 
to catch the next train back to London.” 

'i' 

«r» VK 7|v 

At this point Gibson paused thoughtfully. 

“ Is that all ? ” I asked. 

“ That,” he said, “ is all that I ever heard of the 
matter. I never learnt whether Salt ran away with 
that girl, or whether he let Mrs. Salt sack her; but 
I’ve never heard another svllable about the dis- 
covery from that day to this. In fa£f,” he added, 
rising to his feet, “ I’d absolutely forgotten about 
the whole thing, until I was reminded of it by 
reading of his death to-day. 

“ Well, you mud excuse me,” he concluded. 
“ I’ve promised to go and play billiards. I hope I 
haven’t bored you.” 

His tall, lumbering figure passed across the 
smoking-room and out through the swing doors. 

For a few minutes I remained in my armchair, 

21 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


gazing at the smoke from my pipe and turning over 
in my mind the £lory which I had ju£t heard. 
Presently I managed to attrabl the attention of one 
of the smoking-room waiters. 

“ Partridge,” I said—for thus was the waiter 
known. “ Can you tell me the name of the gentle¬ 
man who was speaking to me ju£t now ? ” 

“ Yes, sir,” said Partridge. “ That was Mr. 
Gibson, sir. Mr. Henry Gibson. He lives here, 
sir,” he added. 

“ Oh,” I said. “ Thanks very much. And 
would you mind getting me to-day’s Times ? ” 

“ Certainly, sir.” 

Obituaries in the Times are, as you know, of two 
descriptions. The inferior dead hire a small space 
on the front page, while the superior dead are given 
anything from a paragraph to a column in the body 
of the paper. But neither of these places contained 
any mention of a Professor Salt. Nor, as I next 
discovered, did Who's Who . Nor did any refer¬ 
ence book in the whole of the Caviare’s well- 
equipped library. 

In a mixed mood of annoyance and bewilder¬ 
ment I went upstairs to the billiard room, and both 
these emotions were increased by my finding it 
empty. Then came yet another sensation. The 
desire for revenge. 


22 


THE INVENTION OF PROFESSOR SALT 


I sat down at the nearest writing-table and un¬ 
screwed my fountain pen. Drawing a line through 
the embossed address at the head of the paper, I 
substituted the words “ Elysian Fields.” Then I 
went on: 

“ Professor Charles Salt presents his com¬ 
pliments to Mr. Henry Gibson, and haStens 
to inform him that having juSt met the late 
Freiherr von Munchausen he can assure Mr. 
Gibson that there is no occasion for jealousy.” 

No, I agree with you. It ought to have been 
better. But I Still think that it was good enough 
for Gibson. 


23 


II 

GIBSON AND THE GHOST 


I DO not use the Caviare Club at all regularly. 

When I have finished my day’s work, I like to 
take my dog out for a walk, and Rule 72 is terribly 
definite on the subjeft of dogs. “ No member,” it 
says, “ shall introduce a dog into the Clubhouse.” 
I suppose the Committee are afraid that we should 
all become too friendly, if we did; and so I only 
introduce Rufus to other dogs in the Park, and the 
Caviare is the poorer by the absence of a very 
attractive personality. Rufus’s, I mean, not mine. 

I should imagine, therefore, that it would have 
been quite a fortnight after Gibson had told me 
about Professor Salt before I found myself in the 
smoking-room again. He was lying back in his 
usual seat, with his eyes apparently closed; but 
there mud have been some illusion about this, for 
I had barely ordered my tea and muffin when he 
came across the room and again sank into the chair 
by my side. 

“ Dreadful fog,” he remarked. “ I don’t 

24 


GIBSON AND THE GHOST 

remember a worse one since the black winter of 

77 * 

This opening surprised me. For not only was it 
completely incredible that Gibson’s memory should 
have carried him anywhere near the date in question, 
not only had I the graved doubts as to whether the 
winter of 1877 had ever previously been described 
as “ black,” but as a matter of faCt the fog was so 
slight that to a Londoner like myself it was barely 
noticeable. 

“ It didn’t strike me as so very bad,” I sug¬ 
gested. 

“ Didn’t it ? ” said Gibson, carelessly. “ I dare 
say it’s only that the windows need cleaning. I 
very seldom go out now, you know,” he added. 

I hadn’t known it, and I wasn’t at all sure that I 
believed him, but with my recollection of our laSt 
interview I wasn’t going to ask him why. Instead 
I said: “ Have you heard anything more about 
Professor Salt ? ” 

No shadow of embarrassment disturbed his 
countenance. 

“ Why, yes,” he answered. “ As a matter of 
fa£t I received a very remarkable communication 
from him the very same day that we la£t met. 
I’ve been seriously wondering whether I oughtn’t 
to send it to the Society for Psychical Research.” 

25 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


He spoke so solemnly that I hardly knew how 
to answer, and while I was £till hesitating, he went 
on again. 

“ What is your candid opinion on the subjedt of 
ghodts ? ” he asked. 

“ Ghodts ? ” I repeated. One didn’t, I felt, 
come to one’s Club to be asked one’s candid 
opinion on anything, leadt of all on such a highly 
controversial matter as this. I hedged. 

“ I’ve never met one,” I said. 

“ No ? ” said Gibson. “ Then you’re dtill open 
to convidtion. Perhaps I might tell you of a very 
dtrange experience that I had once. . . .” 

Without further encouragement he proceeded. 

sL» , v 4 / - 

vjf Vr* VT> 7r> Vf» vT' 

I was quite a young man at the time (said 
Gibson), and I was on a walking tour in North 
Wales. I hadn’t meant to be alone, but the fellow 
I was to have gone with had judt got engaged, or 
else he’d been dtung by a hornet—I can’t quite 
remember which. Anyhow, he couldn’t dtart; but 
I’d made all my plans, so I went off without him. 
I enjoyed myself enormously. The weather wasn’t 
as good as it might have been, but the air and the 
scenery were perfedf, and in those days one didn’t 
mind an occasional wetting. I had a little ruck¬ 
sack, and I used to put up for the night anywhere 

26 


GIBSON AND THE GHOST 


that they’d take me in. Like George Borrow, you 
know; except that I didn’t try to talk Welsh. 

But one evening it came on to rain in an absolute 
deluge. Even the things in my bag were drenched, 
and to make it worse I seemed to have got off the 
main road on to a cart track which looked as though 
any minute it might £lop altogether. Once I 
thought I’d found a house, but it was only a chapel, 
and though I’d have gone in anywhere to get out 
of the rain, the door was padlocked and I had to 
give it up. By this time it was so dark that I’d lo£l 
all sense of direction, and I was really beginning to 
think that I was out there for the night, when 
suddenly in the distance I saw a light twinkling. 

I made for it at once, though this meant 
scrambling over more than a dozen £lone fences, 
and at la£t I came up to what looked like a fair¬ 
sized private house, with a lamp shining faintly 
through one of the windows. By now I muff have 
been a pretty disreputable sight, but I couldn’t 
afford to worry about that; so I made my way 
round to the front door and, as there wasn’t a bell, 
knocked on it with my £tick. 

Presently I heard the bolts being withdrawn and 
then the door was opened on the chain, and I saw a 
middle-aged lady ^landing there holding a gutter¬ 
ing candle. I took off my hat. 

27 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


“ I’m very sorry to disturb you,” I said, trying 
to instill a kind of exaggerated refinement into my 
voice, in the hope that this would make her over¬ 
look my clothes, “ but I’m afraid I’ve managed to 
lose my way. Could you very kindly diredt me to 
the nearest inn ? ” 

Somehow I felt it was no good trying to quarter 
myself on her, for I realized how like a murderer I 
mud look. 

“ The nearest inn is five miles from here,” she 
answered. “ You could never find it on a night 
like this. But my sisler and I will be very glad if 
you will £lop here till the morning. Wait a 
moment, and I will unchain the door.” 

I began some kind of apology and clumsy thanks 
but she cut me short. 

“ You can thank us in the morning,” she 
said. 

I wondered what she meant by this, but I gave 
it up and followed her into the dining-room, where 
a £till more middle-aged lady was sitting at table by 
herself. The two of them spoke to each other in 
low voices for a minute, and then the one who had 
let me in said: “ If you would like to change your 
wet things before joining us at supper, I can lend 
you some clothes of my father’s.” And seeing me 
hesitate, she added: “ He’s dead.” 

28 


GIBSON AND THE GHOST 


“ Oh,” I said, awkwardly. “ Of course, I am 
rather wet, but are you quite sure-” 

“ Come with me,” she interrupted, and, taking 
up the candlestick, she led me upstairs into a bare- 
looking bedroom with a four-poSt bed and a couple 
of dark oaken presses in it. She went to one of 
these and opened the doors. 

“ You’ll find what you need there, I think,” she 
said. 

“ It’s moSt awfully good of you-” I began, 

but again she cut me short. 

“ We can’t let you die of pneumonia,” she said. 
And with these words she went out of the room, 
closing the door behind her. 

It didn’t take me long to exchange my wet things 
for a set from the big wardrobe. They weren’t a 
bad fit, except for the waiStcoat, which sagged a bit 
in front; and when everything else was on, I 
looked round to see if I could find a pair of slippers. 
But I couldn’t, and as my own boots were much too 
wet to put on again, I decided to go downstairs in 
my Stocking feet. 

It was because of this, I suppose, that I over¬ 
heard a fragment of conversation between my two 
hoStesses as I returned to the dining-room. 

“ If vou don’t tell him,” said the siSter whom I 
took to be the elder, “ then I shall.” 

29 




ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


I don’t know what answer the other one might 
have made, for at this moment I thought it be£t 
to cough. They both started from their chairs 
as if they had been shot, but the next second the 
same look of relief came into each of their 
faces. 

“ I’m afraid I startled you,” I apologized. “ I 
thought you muft have heard me coming in. I’m 
awfully sorry if I did.” 

“ Oh, no,” they both said together. “ It was 
nothing. Won’t you come and sit down, Mr. 

_ ? ” 

• 

“ Gibson,” I said. 

“ Our name is Ellis,” said the elder sisler, and 
we all bowed at each other. 

Nothing could have been more hospitable than 
the way that they pressed me to eat, and I’m afraid 
I took full advantage of it, for I was pretty hungry. 
There was some jolly good cider, too. But during 
the whole of the meal the shadow of their inter¬ 
rupted argument seemed to £tand over us, and our 
attempts at conversation were no very great success. 
More than once I seemed to catch them signalling 
to each other with their eyes. 

Then, when I had at la£t finished eating, the 
elder Miss Ellis turned to me, and said: “ We 
keep very early hours here, Mr. Gibson. If you 

30 



GIBSON AND THE GHOST 


would care to sit up a little longer, please do; 
but-” 

“ Oh, no,” I said. “ I’ve been walking all day, 
and I shall be only too pleased to get to sleep. If 
the room is ready for me, I’ll go at once.” 

Again they glanced at each other, and then the 
elder one said: “ Before you do go, there’s some¬ 
thing I feel I ought to tell you. My sifter would 
rather that I had kept it from you, but it’s better 
that you should know.” 

I looked a bit puzzled, as you can imagine, but 
she went on at once. 

“ Our father died nearly two years ago,” she 
said, “ and it was his wish that we should sell this 
house and go to live in some town. We would have 
been very glad to do so, Mr. Gibson, for you can 
imagine that it is lonely enough out here; but 
unless we sell it, we could hardly afford to move. 
And there’s something about it which has so far 
prevented even the people who have come to see it 
from wishing to live here. Perhaps you can guess 
what it is ? ” 

“ You mean that it is so difficult to get at ? ” I 
suggested. 

“ Oh, no,” she said. “ It would be perfectly 
easy for anyone with a car, and we’ve some of the 
be£t fishing and rough shooting in the whole of this 

3i 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


part of the country. Many people would be only 
too glad to take it at the price that we have asked. 
No, it’s something about the house itself.” 

“ Do you mean the drains ? ” I asked. 

“ No, no,” she said; and then speaking quickly, 
as if to prevent her sifter from stopping her, she 
came out with it. 

“ One of the rooms is haunted,” she said. 

“ Haunted ? ” I repeated, and I’m afraid I 
smiled. 

“ Yes,” she said. “ The room in which we are 
putting you to-night. My father’s old room.” 

Somehow the idea no longer seemed quite so 
amusing. It struck me that even an unexpected 
and unknown gueSt might have been put some¬ 
where else. But I had the explanation at once. 

“ I’m telling you,” she went on, “ because 
unfortunately the other rooms are all shut up. 
They aren’t even furnished. So if you would 
prefer to spend the night here on the settle, we 
should quite understand. But I can promise you 
one thing. There is no danger.” 

I looked at the shining oak of the settle, and 
wondered what kind of an ass I should feel and 
what kind of cramp I should have if I tried to sleep 
on it. My fatigue more than my courage brought 
me to a decision. 


32 


GIBSON AND THE GHOST 


“ I think I’ll risk the bed,” I said. 

Besides, of course, there weren’t such things as 
haunted rooms. 

I seemed to see a look of relief come into Miss 
Ellis’s face. 

“ I’m glad of it,” she said. “ I always hope that 
someone may come here who will break the spell, 
whatever it is. Who knows that it may not be 
you ? ” 

I began to feel rather noble. 

“ Who knows ? ” I repeated. 

“ The room will be ready in about half an hour,” 
she added. “ I will leave you a candle here. And 
breakfast will be at half-pa£l eight.” 

We all said good-night to each other, and the 
two siilers went off upstairs to their own rooms. 

And then, of course, as soon as they’d gone, I 
realized that I ought to have asked in what par¬ 
ticular way the gho£t, if it were a gho£t, showed 
itself. Did it begin its work as soon as one was in 
bed, or did it prefer to wake one up at two or three 
in the morning ? Did it confine itself to noises 
and the rattling of furniture, or did it put in a 
visible appearance and cut its throat or hang itself 
in a phosphorescent glow ? It was too late to ask 
now, but I spent the next half hour in recalling to 
myself a number of grisly incidents which I had 

33 D 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


read or which had been related to me at different 
periods in my life. And the more I tried to think 
of other things, the more these Glories came crowd¬ 
ing into my brain. 

Presently a log in the fireplace fell in with a 
crash, and the Start that I gave made me realize that 
my thoughts were going the wrong way for a man 
who had to sleep in a haunted room. I picked up 
my candle and marched up the flairs. 

I whittled a good bit while I was undressing to 
try and steady my nerves, but I’ll say at once there 
was nothing oppressive or creepy about the feeling 
of the bedroom. I suppose that to many people 
the thought of ghosts Still occurs whenever they 
are spending their firSt night in a strange house; 
but if my hostess hadn’t taken the trouble to warn 
me, this was the laSt kind of room that would have 
put such ideas into my mind. It had no hidden 
corners, or curtained alcoves, to assist the imagina¬ 
tion. It wasn’t even hung with tapestries. On the 
contrary, the walls were a plain white distemper, 
and the light from my candle penetrated with the 
utmoSt ease into every angle. I began to feel con¬ 
siderably reassured. Why should I let the elder 
Miss Ellis’s hallucinations—for this was clearly 
the explanation of the whole thing—disturb my 
night’s reSt ? In another twelve hours I should 

34 


GIBSON AND THE GHOST 


have left the house for good and all, and meanwhile 
it was childish to pretend that anything super¬ 
natural was going to waSte its time in a little white¬ 
washed bedroom like this. I flopped my whitt¬ 
ling, hurried into the night-shirt which had been 
put out for me, jumped into bed, and blew out the 
candle. In ten minutes I was faSt asleep. 

It was Still dark when I suddenly woke, and for 
a moment I wondered where I was. Then I 
remembered, and I put out my hand to feel for the 
matches, so as to see what time it was. But I never 
reached the matchbox. While I was Still fumbling 
in the blackness, I was Startled to hear—almoSt by 
my side, it seemed—a low, agonized groan. I shot 
round quickly, and at the same inStant there was a 
crash as my hand caught the candlestick and it 
went rolling away over the floor. 

I don’t suppose that I have ever been more 
genuinely terrified in my life. My heart was beat¬ 
ing wildly and the sweat was pouring off my face, 
but I could no more have got out of bed and hunted 
for those matches than have flown to the moon. 
I remained as I was, half sitting and half lying, with 
every muscle rigid, while I Strained my ears to 
catch the echo of that sound. For perhaps as much 
as three minutes there was dead silence. And then, 

35 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 

juSt as I was on the point of moving, it came 
again. 

“ U-u-agh! ” said somebody from out of the 
darkness. 

My tongue was dry and my throat seemed 
paralysed, but, calling on all my will-power, I 
forced myself to speak. 

“ What’s that ? ” I said, hoarsely. “ What do 
vou want ? ” 

J 

Dead silence, except for the pounding of my 
heart. And then, nearer than ever, I heard an in¬ 
describable kind of rumbling noise and a faint sigh. 

Suddenly I made up my mind. Whether it were 
a ghoSt, an injured burglar, or a practical joker who 
was playing these tricks on me, the time for in¬ 
activity was over. With a quick movement I 
lunged out at the blackness with one fiSt after the 
other. 

I could have sworn that both my arms mud have 

passed right through the source of the sounds, but 

so little resistance did they meet that I almoSt fell 

¥ 

out of the bed on the further side. And as I 
Struggled to recover myself, there came—actually 
from the very spot where I was lying—an abso¬ 
lutely unmistakable hiccough. 

That settled it. A ghoSt might groan; a ghoCl 
might even rumble; a ghoSt might howl, gibber, 

36 


GIBSON AND THE GHOST 


wail, clank, scream, or caterwaul. But surely to 
goodness no ghoft had ever so far forgotten itself 
as to hiccough. I jumped out on to the floor, felt 
my way round the bottom of the four-pooler, and 
the next minute I had found the matches and Olruck 
a light. 

With every wish in the world to hurry, I suppose 
it was a good half-minute before the flame of the 
candle was properly alight, and then, as it slowly 
grew to its full height, I turned round. 

The next moment I all but dropped the candle¬ 
stick back on the carpet. Lying in the very middle 
of the bed—across the whole breadth of which I 
had juOl made my way without encountering an 
obstacle of any kind—was a huge, bearded man, 
dressed as far as the visible portions of him were 
concerned in a nightshirt which was the exa£l twin 
to the one I was wearing myself. As I Stood there, 
stupefied and dumbfounded, he tossed his head 
wearily, gave a hideous scowl, and uttered another 
heartrending groan. 

I took a Step forward. 

“ Excuse me, sir,” I began. And then I 
flopped. As I spoke, he had opened his eyes and 
turned them in my direction, and the candlelight 
was quite enough to show T me that he was looking, 
not at me, but right through me. 

37 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


I can hardly tell to what ridiculous thoughts this 
adlion of his for the moment gave rise. In the 
small hours of the night one is apt to reason by 
Strange and abnormal short cuts. And for a 
second, so solid did he appear and so completely 
unconscious of my presence or existence, that it 
occurred to me as a very reasonable explanation 
of the whole affair that I myself had died in my 
sleep, and was now doing my be£l to haunt some¬ 
body else. I think it was his second hiccough that 
brought me back to my senses. 

“ I beg your pardon,” I began again, “ but 
would you mind telling me-” 

And again I broke off. At these laSt words he 
had suddenly hunched himself up in a knot, 
Straightened himself out again, and with the 
motion of a ponderous porpoise had flung himself 
over on his side, with his back turned in my 
diredfion. 

I began to feel annoyed. It was no good anyone 
who was throwing himself about like this trying to 
make me believe that he was asleep. And to 
whatever mistake on my part my presence in his 
bedroom was due, I was at leaSt entitled to a civil 
answer when I addressed him. I set the candle 
down on the dressing-table, Stepped to the side of 
the bed, and tapped him on the shoulder. 

3 8 



GIBSON AND THE GHOST 


My hand went right through his back and was 
brought up short by the sheet! 

I staggered backwards against the wall. 

“ Good God! ” I said to myself. “ It is a ghoSt. 
What on earth am I to do ? ” 

I looked wildly round for a bell, but there was no 
sign of one. I tried to shout for help, but my voice 
was strangled in my throat, as it is in a nightmare. 
I looked at the door in the far corner of the room, 
but even if I had the strength or courage to reach it, 
what could I expeSt in the way of assistance from a 
house full of women ? What would they think of me 
if I tried to rouse them with the news that there was 
a ghoSt in my bed ? 

I suddenly wondered if the elder Miss Ellis had 
known what she was talking about when she had 
said there was no danger. 

And then, while I was Still trembling againSt the 
wall, there was a sudden flutter of sheets and 
blankets, a short explosion of hiccoughs, and the 
occupant of the bed had got out on to the floor. 

He was an immense creature. Quite as tall as I 
am myself, and considerably heavier in every way, 
and as he Stood there, muttering to himself in his 
night-shirt, he looked like a representation of 
Moses or someone of that sort, on a heroic scale. 

Once again he Stared right through me, and 

39 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 

then he began walking noiselessly round the 
room. 

Fir£t of all he went to the wash£land, which was 
opposite the foot of the big bed, and seemed to be 
searching all over it for something, moaning 
occasionally as he did so. Then he poured himself 
out a glass of water, and was on the point of drink¬ 
ing it when something apparently made him 
change his mind. He set it down untasled and 
crossed to one of the oak wardrobes. He flung the 
doors open and began pitching the things out on 
the floor, bending down to peer into the backs of 
the shelves, but occasionally breaking off as if 
racked with a sudden spasm of pain. Once even 
tottering as far as the bed and clutching at the 
nearest po£t, while a torrent of low-pitched oaths 
fell from his lips. 

In this way he gradually went through the whole 
of both the presses, but Slill, obviously, without 
coming on the objedf of his search. He took a 
moment’s re£l on the edge of the bed, and then 
began again; climbing on a chair to look on the 
tops of the wardrobes, bending down to look under 
the wash£land, pulling out the dressing-table 
drawers, and flinging them with a baffled snarl on 
the floor. Once he made as if to open the door, and 

I thought he was going to leave me, but at the la£t 

40 


GIBSON AND THE GHOST 


moment he shook his head, and came back to dart 
turning over the heaps of clothes on the carpet. 
And all the time his powerful and clumsy move¬ 
ments were punctuated by these indescribable sighs 
and groans, while his face was periodically twided 
into a mask of agony. 

“ Why the hell can’t people leave things where 
they find them ? ” I heard him mutter once, as he 
passed uncomfortably near me. “ Much they care 
what sort of a night I have! ” 

I drew back in my corner and he passed by 
without touching me. And then a fresh thought 
seemed to strike him. Going back to one of the big 
wardrobes, he took out the sliding shelves and piled 
them in a heap on the floor. Then he set his 
shoulder againd the side of the empty frame and 
gave it a great push. To my horrified eyes he 
seemed to sink more than half-way through it 
before it moved, but at lad it did move, and heaving 
and draining, he succeeded in getting it as much as 
a yard out into the room. And then I saw, or 
thought I saw, what his objedl had been. For 
behind where the wardrobe had dood, there was 
the door of a cupboard, flush with the surface of the 
wall. 

With a cry of delight he flew to the handle and 
tugged. But the door was locked, and it didn’t 

4i 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


even rattle. For another minute or two he had to 
give up his attempts while he sank on to a chair and 
coughed and groaned in a paroxysm of discomfort. 
And then he pulled himself together and began 
looking apparently for something with which to 
force the lock. 

Fir£t of all he tried the poker from the fireplace, 
but the door fitted so closely that he could get no 
purchase to lever it open, and the wood was too 
thick to yield to the battering with which he next 
assaulted it. Then he took my comb from the 
dressing-table, and wedged it in close to the lock. 
What exa£lly he was trying to do I could no longer 
see, for though pervious, he was not transparent; 
but the wor£t oath that he had uttered vet came as I 

J 

heard the comb snap in his hands. 

Then he came back to my side of the bed and 
gazed thoughtfully at the candle and matches, as if 
pondering the possibility of burning his way into 
the cupboard, but this thought, I am glad to say, 
he abandoned. Inslead, he got down on the floor 
and began turning up the edges of the carpet, 
searching now, I imagined, for the missing key. 

“ Clumsy idiots! ” I heard him grunt, as he 
made his way round the room, puffing, and—I am 
sorry to have to repeat it—hiccoughing. I drew 
myself back into the smallest possible space as he 

42 


GIBSON AND THE GHOST 


neared my corner, but before he could reach me, 
he gave a sudden gasp of satisfaction and staggered 
to his feet. In his hand he held a key. 

I muSt say that I was partly prepared for what 
followed, for even at the distance at which I was it 
was quite clear that the key which he had ju£t 
found was far too small for the cupboard lock. 
But the ghoSt was either unnoticing of details or 
deficient in reasoning power, for it wasn’t until he 
had made four or five attempts to turn the wards 
with this inadequate instrument that he seemed to 
realize what was wrong. When at laSt he did, he 
seemed suddenly to go mad. 

With a fearful yell he hurled the useless key 
againSt the wall, and the next moment, dancing 
with rage, he was picking up the shirts and under¬ 
clothes with which the floor was Strewn and tearing 
them to ribbons. He aimed a particularly vicious 
kick at a pair of trousers and sent them flying 
through the air, and followed this up by sweeping 
all the glass and china off the washStand with a 
backhander from a knitted waiStcoat. Then he 
launched another terrific kick at a woollen dressing- 
gown, missed it, took a second shot, and brought 
his toe againSt the end of the bed with a muzzle 
velocity of about five thousand feet to the second. 

“ Ow! ” he shrieked, hopping wildly about on 

43 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


one bare foot. He put out his hand to steady 
himself by one of the bedposts, failed to catch it, 
tottered on to his injured toe, and with another ear- 
splitting cry, came tumbling across the carpet 
towards my corner. Again I shrank back, putting 
out a palsied hand to keep him off, but he had too 
much way on him for me to hope to escape. With 
a slithering crash he fell right against me. I felt 
his beard touching my neck, I felt—I saw it going 
right through me; I made a lasl, desperate effort 
to avoid him, and then, with a Rifled shriek and a 
feeling of unutterable horror, I collapsed on top 
of him in a dead faint. 

When I came to myself again (added Gibson, 
after a brief pause), it was daylight. I remembered 
at once what had happened during the night, but 
for the moment I was so cramped by the way in 
which I had fallen that I found it impossible to 
move. I could only sit there shivering and rubbing 
my legs. And then at la£t I managed to scramble 
on to my feet. 

It was a radiant morning after the night’s rain, 
and the sun shone full in at the window on one of 
the wildest scenes of confusion and de£lru£tion that 
a country-house bedroom can ever have seen. 
Broken china and torn garments were sprinkled all 

44 


GIBSON AND THE GHOST 


over the floor; a splintered drawer lay bottom 
upwards with a single fishing boot perilously 
balanced on one corner; and the wall all round the 
locked cupboard was scarred and dented from the 
blows of the poker. Of my bearded visitor himself 
there was, thank heaven, no sign. 

It was impossible to wash, as it was impossible 
to shave, but I hurtled into the fir£t clothes that I 
could find, and went quickly to the door. There I 
suddenly paused. Would I, I wondered, a com¬ 
plete stranger, be believed if I laid the responsibility 
for the condition of the room which I had been lent 
for the night on the gho£t of an unknown man with 
a beard ? Would I for one second have believed 
any gue£t of mine who came to me with such a £tory 
in the morning ? For a moment I thought of 
going back and trying to repair some of the damage, 
but to tell the truth I funked it. To have stayed in 
that room for another infant was more than I could 
face. 

I closed the latch firmly behind me and ran 
down the stairs. The front door was open, and I 
hurried out into the fresh air. As I did so, the elder 
Miss Ellis came round the corner of the house with 
a garden basket on her arm. 

I suppose I mu£t have looked a pretty ghastly 
sight, for she flopped dead at once. 

45 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


“ Tell me,” she said quietly. “ Did you see it ? ” 

I tried to answer, but I could only nod. 

“ And you ftayed there ? ” she asked. 

I nodded again. 

“ I fainted/’ I said. 

She showed no surprise. 

“ What did he do ? ” she went on. 

“ He was looking for something,” I said. “ He 
tried to break into that cupboard in the wall, and 
when he couldn’t-” I flopped short, shudder¬ 

ing at the recolleftion. 

“ But do you mean the cupboard behind the big 
wardrobe ? ” she asked. “ How did he manage 
to reach it ? ” 

“ He shifted the wardrobe,” I said. 

She set down her basket on the dining-room 
window-sill. 

“ Why did we never think of that ? ” she ex¬ 
claimed, clasping her hands. And then, “ But 
what could he want ? What could he have left 
there ? ” 

She didn’t seem to expedt any answer, and I 
remained silent. 

“ Mr. Gibson,” she went on suddenly, “ I 
suppose I ought to apologize to you for what you 
have been through, but you muft listen to me firft. 
My sifter and I have both tried to sleep in that 

46 



GIBSON AND THE GHOST 


room—so have several other people who have 
come about our advertisement of the house. But 
every one of us has seen him, and every one of us 
has run out on to the landing the moment he has 
appeared. What has happened in there after that 
we have never known. But we have heard the 
mod terrible noises, and always the place has been 
turned upside down as though he had been search¬ 
ing for something, and every time the search has 
been more thorough and the confusion more com¬ 
plete. I thought perhaps that if someone came who 
had the courage to wait there with him, we might 

get to the bottom of it at la£t; but-” She 

broke off, and clutched at the side of the porch. 

“ But why did you say there was no danger ? ” 
I asked. 

Her face puckered into an expression of almost 
childish grief. 

“ He was our father,” she said. “ He would 
never have hurt a hair of anyone’s head. The 
kindest man that ever lived—and the be£t.” 

I remembered some of the late Mr. Ellis’s oaths, 
and I held my tongue. 

“ Come and have breakfast,” she said presently, 
“ and afterwards we will open that cupboard.” 

It was an endless, silent meal that followed, and 
as soon as it was over we all three went upstairs. 

47 



ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


The two Miss Ellises gave gasps of horror as they 
saw the chaos to which the room had been reduced, 
but they said nothing; only clasped each other’s 
hands. 

“ Do you think you could help us if we got you 
a chisel ? ” said the elder one. “ The key has been 
lost for over a year, and I don’t want the servants— 
I mean. ...” 

“ Certainly,” I said. “ But if you could let me 
have a little salad oil and a hairpin—a fairly strong 
one—I dare say I could pick the lock. I’m afraid 
otherwise it would mean a good deal of damage.” 

Why I should have been so thoughtful for the 
property which the late owner of the house had ju£t 
done his be£t to wreck, I don’t know. But the 
sifters nodded agreement, and in a few minutes I 
was at work. 

Picking locks in this way is, of course, chiefly a 
question of knack. But I have always had rather 
sensitive fingers, and to tell the truth I had pradtised 
the art more than once in my schoolboy days. At 
the third attempt I felt the wards moving, and with 
gentle but steady pressure I shot back the bolt. 

“ There she comes,” I said, and I flung the door 
open. 

I don’t know what they had been expecting, and 
I hardly know what I was expecting myself. 

48 


GIBSON AND THE GHOST 


Buried treasure, perhaps; or a secret stairway. 
But all I saw was this. A shallow cupboard, not 
more than nine inches deep, and lined with shelves. 
And every shelf from top to bottom was crammed 
with the gaily-coloured wrappers of patent medicine 
bottles. The advertisements at the beginning of 
any high-class magazine will show you the kind of 
thing that I mean. Every single package had been 
opened, and every single package was guaranteed 
to cure the same identical complaint. Indigestion. 

I suddenly remembered the noises that I had 
heard during the night, and a horrible light seemed 
to break over me. Modern spiritualism has pre¬ 
pared us for much; but to think that even beyond 
the grave . . .! 

I turned to the siSters and saw the same thought 
Staring from their eyes. 

“ Poor, poor father,” said the younger one 
slowly. 

And then I thought it beSt to leave them. 

* * * * * * 

Again Gibson paused. 

“ And is that the end ? ” I asked. 

“ Not quite,” he said. “ So far I have only told 
you what I saw myself; but in a way the moSt 
remarkable and the moSt inexplicable part of the 
Story happened after I had left. It was three or 

49 


E 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


four months later, and I was in Monte Carlo. As 
I was coming out of the Paris after lunch one day, 
a viStoria drew up at the door and out of it stepped 
the two Miss Ellises. 

“ I could hardly believe my eyes, for a more 
unexpedted meeting-place it would be difficult to 
imagine. I drew back, Glaring at them, and as I 
did so they saw me. Quickly the elder one came 
up to me and wrung my hand. 

“ 4 Mr. Gibson! ’ she cried. ‘ At laSt we’ve 
found you. Why did you never leave us your 
address ? How could you let us go all these weeks 
and months without thanking you ? ’ 

“ 4 Thanking me ? ’ I said. 4 I’m afraid I don’t 
understand.’ 

44 ‘We’ve sold the house,’ she answered. 4 We’re 
free at laSt, and we’re here on a holiday. And but 
for you we should have been cooped up there for 
life. How can we help thanking you ? ’ 

“ 4 But the room ? ’ I Stammered. 4 I mean, 
your father ? What happened ? ’ 

“ 4 The night you left us,’ she said, 4 he came 
again. The cupboard door was unlocked, and the 
next morning every shelf was Stripped bare. Every 
single bottle and box had gone. The room is as it 
was when we fir£t knew it. The man who has 
taken the house says he never knew what a 

5° 


GIBSON AND THE GHOST 

good night's re£t meant until he slept in that 
bed/ 

“ Ah,” said Gibson, wagging his head sagely. 
“You may say what you like, but there are more 

things in heaven and earth than-” 

“ Yes,” I interrupted, getting up suddenly. 
“ There certainly are.” 

Perhaps I was rude to leave him. But nothing 
like so rude as I should have been if I had stayed. 


5 1 



Ill 

GIBSON AND THE RIVALS 


A NYWHERE else but at the Caviare Club one 
might, after two such experiences of leg¬ 
pulling as I had suffered at Henry Gibson’s hands, 
have taken some kind of £!eps to find out who this 
remarkable creature was, and why he amused 
himself by fabricating these incredible stories for 
the bamboozlement of an innocent fellow member. 
But at the Caviare one either starts by knowing all 
about the men one speaks to, or else one never 
speaks to them at all. There is no master of the 
ceremonies to whom one can apply for particulars 
of other members’ lives, and if anyone chooses, as 
Gibson had chosen, to disregard the Club traditions 
and begin talking to a stranger, the Granger is 
simply left to discover what he can. And in my 
case this was very little. The printed li£t on the 
smoking-room mantelpiece told me that he had 
belonged to the Club for over fifteen years, but 
here its information ceased. I knew also from 
Partridge, the waiter, that he occupied one of the 



GIBSON AND THE RIVALS 


permanent bedrooms on the fourth floor. But from 
Gibson himself I couldn’t truthfully say that I had 
learnt anything, except that he was more or less 
in control of a very powerful imagination. 

Naturally I was curious about him, and I suppose 
it was because of this curiosity that even after his 
second successful attempt to take me in I Still 
couldn’t bring myself to feel any grudge against 
him. Besides, he had looked so puzzled and 
distressed when my momentary exasperation had 
made me break away from him at the end of his 
gho£t Story, that it would have taken a far harder 
heart than mine to bear him any continued ill-will. 
If you never knew Gibson, you might find it diffi¬ 
cult to believe, but the fadt remains that I had all 
but returned with an apology for doubting his 
word. It juSt shows, I suppose, what the artificial 
atmosphere of a place like the Caviare can do. 
Some day I shall write an essay on the effedt of 
architedlure on human tolerance, with special 
reference to clubs and churches. 

Meanwhile, let us get back to Henry Gibson. 

It was again a matter of weeks rather than days 
before I found myself once more in my favourite 
corner of the smoking-room. I had been kept busy 
at home, finishing off a novel against time; and on 
this firSt free afternoon I had taken a long walk 

53 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


round the Park, and was now disposed to spend an 
hour or so, smoking a pipe, looking at the illustrated 
papers and, generally speaking, enjoying the men¬ 
tal vacancy to which my hard work had entitled 
me. For making one’s mind a complete blank 
there is no place that I know like a club. 

But my tea had hardly arrived when I laid down 
the Sphere and found myself gazing into Gibson’s 
nervous-looking and myopic eyes. 

“ Hullo,” he said. “Do you mind if I join 
you ? ” 

I really scarcely knew whether I did or not, but 
as he was already sitting in the next chair, my 
answer seemed predetermined. 

“ Of course not,” I said. 

He smiled apologetically. 

“ I thought this might interest you,” he went on, 
and he held out a newspaper as if to show me some¬ 
thing printed in it; but at the laSt moment he with¬ 
drew it again. 

“ Perhaps it would be better to tell you the 
beginning firSt,” he said. 

“ Is it a long Story ? ” I asked, lifting the lid 
from the muffin dish. 

“ Oh, no,” he said hastily. “ Only about four 
thousand words.” 

I Glared at the astounding creature. Was he 

54 


GIBSON AND THE RIVALS 


poking fun at me because I was a novelist, or—or 
what did he think he was doing ? And as I Glared, 
he suddenly blushed. 

“ I mean,” he corrected himself quickly, “ that 
it's—that it’s quite short. Oh, very short indeed. 
I wouldn’t think of troubling you with it if it 
weren’t. It’s—I mean ...” 

He broke off uncomfortably, and I heard myself 
coming to his assistance. 

“ Well, let’s have it, then,” I said. 

He gave a gulp of apparent relief, another fleet¬ 
ing smile, and began at once. 

***** * 

When I was reading for the bar (said Gibson), 
I used to be in chambers in King’s Bench Walk. 
It’s a long time ago now, and though I was called, 
I never practised, so that my memory of much that 
I did at that period is very vague indeed. But as it 
happens there was one piece of real life that I came 
across during those days which I have never wholly 
forgotten. Perhaps because it had nothing diredtly 
to do with the law. 

The clerk in our chambers was called Albert 
Slaughter, and following the general cuStom in the 
Inns of Court, he was addressed by the pupils as 
Albert. He was a little man, with a ragged 
mou£lache—mo£t barristers’ clerks, of course, 

55 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


imitate their employers and are clean-shaven—and 
a bald head. He used to come up every day from 
Beckenham, carrying his lunch in a brown paper 
parcel, and he mud have been the firSt man that I 
ever came across who wore rubber protedtors on 
the heels of his boots. When he wrapped his legs 
round his high Stool, one couldn’t help noticing 
them. 

There was a touch of pomposity about the man 
which had always tempted the fellows in these 
chambers to make fun of him in one way or 
another. But he Stood it very well, I muSt say, 
perhaps because he took himself so seriously that 
he never knew it. And he was certainly a very 
competent clerk. 

I never used to share in these jokes myself. 
Somehow this kind of humour never appealed to 
me very much, and in a way this gradually estab¬ 
lished a sort of understanding between us as two 
men who realized that life was earneSt. I believe 
he would have been glad to show his appreciation 
of my sobriety if the chance had arisen. But it 
never did. It’s twenty-five years since I laSt saw 
Albert Slaughter, and during the closing months of 
our acquaintanceship I think I really did more for 
him than he did for me. 

But I muSt begin by telling you how it was that I 

56 


GIBSON AND THE RIVALS 


fir^l came to learn that behind that ragged mous¬ 
tache and beneath that shining skull there dwelt 
both ambition and romance. Neither, perhaps, in 
their mod beautiful forms, but sturdy enough 
growths for all that. 

I had gradually come to notice that when I 
returned from my lunch, someone had contracted 
the intermittent and untidy habit of leaving an open 
newspaper on the table at which I worked. It 
wasn’t always the same organ, but it was invariably 
folded back so as to display one of the inner sheets; 
and as by half-pa£t two I had seen all that I wanted 
to see of the morning’s news, I used to sweep it into 
the wa^te-paper basket and forget about it. That is 
to say that I made no particular effort to remember 
such a detail, but the cumulative effeCt of making 
this discovery and going through this aCtion five or 
six times a month had insensibly impressed itself 
on my mind; and the day at length arrived when I 
said to myself, “ Why should I be troubled with 
this plague of newspapers ? Why can’t this 
desultory reader get rid of his property for himself ? 
Why should I spare even a second from my £tudy 
of the law to aCt as a public scavenger ? ” 

I picked up the latent crumpled addition to the 
papers on my table, and addressed my fellow pupils. 

“ Look here,” I said. “ Does this belong to 

57 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


any of you fellows ? If so, I wish you’d chuck 
it away somewhere else, and not on my things like 
this.” 

But the three young gentlemen who shared the 
room with me were unanimous in disclaiming 
responsibility. They adopted various methods of 
making this point clear, and in the course of their 
explanations the newspaper itself became a good 
deal torn. I was left with a small fragment in my 
hand, and sitting down again in dignified silence, 
my eye lit suddenly on a familiar name. 

You know the correspondence columns of the 
ordinary morning paper. They are regarded by the 
editors as a variable feature, to be expanded when 
there is a shortage of news, and contracted, moved 
on to an inferior page, or omitted altogether, when 
there is any kind of pressure from more important 
matter. Well, what I held in my hand was a 
portion of one of these columns, and what I now 
found myself reading was, as near as I can remem¬ 
ber, this: 

“ Sir, 

The present interest in the forthcoming 
celebration of the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee 
recalls the fact, which may be unknown to 
your readers, that the Koh-i-noor Diamond 

58 


GIBSON AND THE RIVALS 


weighed, before it was re-cut, exadtly 18 6 
carats; and that it is exactly 68 i years since 
the accession of Henry III, who enjoyed (if 
we omit the period of the Regency from the 
life of the third George) the second longest 
reign of any British sovereign. 

Yours etc., 

A. Howard Slaughter.” 

I laid this remarkable communication down on 
my table, and said no more about it. But after the 
other pupils had gone that evening, I picked it up 
again and went into the clerk’s room. 

“ Albert,” I said. “ Is it you who have been 
leaving newspapers on my table all this time ? ” 

He looked up from the copying press. 

“ Yes, sir,” he said, apologetically. “ I thought 
perhaps you might be interested in some of the 
letters of mine which they’ve printed.” 

I didn’t like to tell him that until to-day they 
had all gone into the waSte-paper basket unread. 
So I said: “ But why didn’t you tell me you’d put 
them there ? I’d have given them back to you. 
As it is, I’m afraid they’ve all gone—that is, except 
the one I’ve juSt found.” 

“ Oh, that’s all right, sir,” he said. “ They were 
only duplicates that I put out for you. I’ve kept a 

59 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


set for myself in my press-cutting book. Perhaps 
you’d like to see it ? ” he added, hopefully. 

“ Well, some other time,” I answered, not, I 
fear, very encouragingly. But Albert needed no 
encouragement. 

“ I’ll bring it up here to-morrow, sir,” he said, 
eagerly. And he did. I found the thing waiting 
for me when I arrived next day, and, as the re¬ 
viewers say, once I’d taken it up, it was impossible 
to lay it down again. If I had come on the letters 
separately and in their original context, I should 
either have skipped them or have been enraged by 
their impertinent imbecility. But seeing them all 
together like this, I became, as it were, fascinated. 
It was such an extraordinary revelation of other 
people’s lives, to realize that this creature, Albert 
Slaughter, had secretly and for many years been 
contributing this unsolicited information to the 
Press of the country; and that he was perfectly 
contented, apparently, if he got his name into 
print, no matter what kind of balderdash served as 
the excuse for his objedt. I let my Roman law slide, 
and spent the whole day poring over this Encyclo¬ 
paedia Lunatica. 

The letters fell, as I soon discovered, into two 
main classes. Fir&, the Historical Parallel or 
Coincidence, of which I have already given you an 

60 


GIBSON AND THE RIVALS 


example. And secondly, the Topographical Curi¬ 
osity or Anecdote, which generally referred to 
some little-known fadt about the site of a public 
building. Both classes were invariably introduced 
by some more or less—generally less—apposite 
reference to a topic of the day, so that the reader 
was always being entrapped into the belief that the 
letter was going to deal with Home Rule, or Cap¬ 
tain Dreyfus, or the Armenian atrocities. Some¬ 
times both varieties were ingeniously combined. 
I remember, for instance, a letter which ran some¬ 
what as follows: 

“ Sir, 

Your recent article on the progress which 
is being made with the new Tower Bridge 
may serve to remind us that it was in the 
neighbouring fortress that Sir Walter Raleigh 
formulated those theories which have borne 
fruit in the ^team-engine as we know it to-day. 
Curiously enough, the engineers responsible 
for the work are relying for its operation on 
hydraulic power, but is it too late to suggest 
that the three hundredth anniversary of this 
great Englishman’s fir£t imprisonment should 
be marked by giving to this new means of 
communication between the banks of our 

61 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


national river the name of the ‘ Raleigh 
Bridge ? ’ 

I am, etc., 

A. Howard Slaughter.” 

And there were unclassifiable letters giving 
sporting records, suggesting improbable origins for 
slang phrases, quoting comic gravestones and 
names of public-houses, or asking plaintively why 
the maypole had gone out of fashion. Pages and 
pages, and yet again more pages of the press-cutting 
book had been filled with this torrent of nonsense, 
and the whole time there seemed to shine out from 
between the lines, shameless and unmiSlakable, the 
real motive which had prompted their conSlrudtion. 
I mean the determination that by hook or crook the 
linotype should rattle and the presses roar for the 
perpetual advertisement of Mr. A. Howard 
Slaughter. 

That afternoon I gave his book back to Albert, 
and I asked him: “ Doesn’t this work take up a 
great deal of your time ? ” 

“ I do it in the evenings, sir,” he said. “ Of 
course it does keep me pretty busy, but then, it’s 
what you might call my hobby. I hope you found 
them interesting, sir ? ” 

“ Very,” I said. 


6 2 


GIBSON AND THE RIVALS 


“ Of course, they don’t print everything that I 
write,” he went on. “ I suppose I could hardly 
expedt that. But I ought to be having my five 
hundredth letter in some time this year. That’s 
not a bad total, is it ? ” 

“ Bad ? ” I said. “ I should say not. It’s per¬ 
fectly wonderful.” 

He smiled modestly. 

“ Yes,” he confessed. “ It is rather good. But,” 
he went on, “ I dare say you’ve noticed that there’s 
another correspondent who runs me pretty close. 
I wouldn’t like it if he was to reach the five hundred 
before I did.” 

I was dtartled to hear that there were two of these 
monomaniacs at work, but after all, why not ? 

“ What’s the other fellow’s record ? ” I asked. 

“ Well, sir,” said Albert, “ I don’t exadtly know, 
because I may have missed some of his early ones. 
But ever since he took it up seriously, I’ve had his 
letters sent on to me by Romeike’s, and I’ve got 
over four hundred and fifty already.” 

“ By Jove! ” I said. “ It’s getting a close thing. 
We can’t have him beating you at the podt.” 

I swear that all I had meant was a kind of general 
encouragement, such as a spedtator is entitled to 
offer at any sporting event. But the simple- 
minded Albert interpreted my words otherwise. 

63 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


“ It’s really very good of you, sir,” he said, 
bashfully. “ I can’t tell you what a help it would 
be if an educated gentleman like yourself was to 
give me a hand now and then. Really, sir, it’s very 
kind of you indeed.” 

I gasped at him for a moment, but I hadn’t the 
heart to let him down when I saw the gratitude in 
his eyes. 

“ Right you are, Albert,” I said. “ We’ll get to 
work at once.” 

And thus it was that I came to take an adlive 
part in the great correspondence competition 
between A. Howard Slaughter and his unknown 
rival, G. Harley Tufnell. 

In all great enterprises it is of course organiza¬ 
tion that really counts, and I saw at once that if we 
were to make certain of reaching the goal fir£t, we 
mud go into the thing thoroughly and work on 
lines which would leave as little as possible to 
chance. 

Fir£t of all I began by trying to put myself in the 
average editor’s place. What would it be that, in 
the ordinary way, would make him give preference 
to one letter over another ? A £tudy of the corre¬ 
spondence columns of various newspapers seemed 
to show that intrinsic merit and even grammatical 
English counted for little or nothing. Brevity was 

64 


GIBSON AND THE RIVALS 


clearly to be aimed at, and humour as far as possible 
avoided. I imagined that what really happened— 
and I have since discovered that this is roughly 
speaking true—was that all letters, except those 
from notorious publicists, were immediately flung 
into the neareSt waSte-paper basket, but that on 
those nights when news was scarce and space had 
to be filled, the ones which had fallen on top were 
taken out again, and, unless actionable or obscene, 
were passed over to the compositors at once. 

This theorizing suggested two chief taCtical 
schemes. FirSt, we muSt increase our output so 
much that in any given waSte-paper basket one of 
our letters muSt always be present; and secondly, 
we muCt write on as large and tough a paper as 
could possibly be obtained, so that a hand plunged 
carelessly into one of these receptacles mu£t almost 
inevitably hit one of our communications some¬ 
where. After some consideration I rejected the 
idea of having a coronet embossed on the flap 
of our envelopes, as I felt that in the long run 
this would probably do us more harm than 
good. 

I paid a visit to a Regent Street stationer’s and 
ordered a supply of large po£t, handmade note- 
paper, with deckled edges, and I had it Stamped 
with Albert’s Beckenham address. As an after- 

65 


F 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


thought I also bought a bottle of violet ink. And 
with these raw materials we got to work. 

I used to make the original drafts for mod of the 
letters, but they were all written out by Albert 
himself when he got home at night; and every 
morning he used to pod them at the pod office in 
Fleet Street. They were too large to go into any of 
his suburban pillar-boxes. In the main I modelled 
my dyle on the press-cutting album, for it wouldn’t 
have done if there had been too sudden a change; 
but I will admit that I introduced one or two pretty 
useful improvements. 

For one thing, since at any rate as far as I was 
concerned we were simply out to beat Mr. Tufnell, 
I wasn’t going to let myself be hampered by the 
difficulty of stringing my anecdote or coincidence 
on to the news of the day, or to trouble myself by 
following up a subjed on which previous corre¬ 
spondence had already been printed. I was a fore¬ 
runner of the new journalism, which starts from 
nowhere with a bang, and knows that if it doesn’t 
catch your eye in the fird two lines, then it will 
never be read at all. 

This is the kind of thing that I used to turn out: 

“ Sir, 

It is interesting to refled that the cudom 

66 


GIBSON AND THE RIVALS 


of placing small wooden acorns on the ends of 
blind cords has its origin in the druidical 
belief that the oak enjoyed a special immunity 
from the effe£ts of lightning.” 

or, 

“ Sir, 

How many of your readers, I wonder, are 
aware that if Cleopatra’s Needle were placed 
on the top of the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral 
their total height would £till fall short by more 
than sixteen feet of that of the Great Pyramid 
of Cheops ? ” 

My idea, you see, was to keep the letters as short 
and snappy as I could; partly so that they should 
make as little demand as possible on anyone’s 
intelligence, and partly because this meant that 
they were more suitable for filling in the odd spaces 
with which sub-editors are always having to cope. 
I got mod of my fadls—if they were fa6ts—from 
Albert, and where he had picked them up I really 
don’t know. But he had been jotting them down 
in notebooks for years. And if any letter hadn’t 
appeared within a fortnight of being sent in, we 
polled a copy to the next newspaper on our li£t. 

In a very short time the effects of this intensified 

67 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


campaign began to show themselves. We had 
many disappointments, it is true. But I had 
allowed for that, and I calculated that if only five 
per cent, of our letters got into print, we should £till 
be able to count on an average of from three to 
four successes every week. It seemed as if the 
palm of vi6tory were already in our—or perhaps I 
should say, in Albert’s grasp. 

But our unknown adversary was not, apparently, 
going to take things lying down. Within a month 
of the opening of my barrage, Tufnell’s score had 
crept up level with our own, and the following 
week he actually beat us. 

“ He can’t keep it up,” I told Albert. “ We 
mustn’t let ourselves get rattled. Remember we’re 
two to one.” 

“ How do we know that, sir ? ” he answered. 
“ What’s to prevent this Tufnell from doing what 
I’ve done. What’s to prevent him getting two, or 
even half a dozen, people to help him ? ” 

“ You’re losing your nerve, Albert,” I said. 
“ Nobody could send out more letters than we do 
over the one signature. They’d be giving the 
whole show away at once.” 

Albert shook his head doubtfully. 

“ What worries me, sir,” he said, “ is that I £till 
don’t know how many of Tufnell’s letters I missed 

68 


GIBSON AND THE RIVALS 


at the beginning. What’s the use of going on if 
he’s reached the five hundred already ? ” 

This was true enough, even if it was hardly the 
fighting spirit that I had expected. 

“ I hadn’t thought of that,” I said. “ But how 
can we find out now ? ” 

“We might write and ask him,” Albert sug¬ 
gested. “ I suppose he’ll have kept his own 
score.” 

“ No,” I said, firmly. “ No communication 
with the enemy. He’ll think we’re afraid of being 
beaten if we do that. What we’ve got to do is to 
crowd on all the Steam we’ve got, and whack him 
at his own game. What if he does reach the five 
hundred mark firSt ? By the time we’ve got to the 
thousand he’ll wish he’d never learnt to read or 
write.” 

You see, by now my blood was thoroughly up. 
I hardly noticed the Strain that the competition 
was having on poor Albert. All I knew was that 
I’d backed him to win, and I was jolly well going 
to see that he did it. 

But the very next day we got the information 
that we needed to bring the thing to a quick finish, 
and from the very laSt source that I had expeSled. 
In the Morning Leader there was a letter from 
Tufnell himself, which read as follows: 

69 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


“ Sir, 

It would be interesting to ascertain what 
living writer holds the record for the number 
of unsolicited communications which he has 
had printed in the correspondence columns of 
the daily Press. I myself have now obtained 
publicity for no less than 473 such letters, all 
of them on subjects of general interest, and all 
entirely of my own unassisted construction. 
How many of your readers can beat this ? 

Yours, etc., 

G. Harley Tufnell.” 


Albert brought me this letter as soon as I got 
down to the Temple that day. He was trembling 
with excitement. 

“ We’re dead level, sir,” he said. “ We’re dead 
level! They printed my four hundred and seventy- 
third in the St. James's Gazette laSt night. You 
know, sir, the one on the origin of spats.” 

“ Did they ? ” I replied. “ Then I’m afraid he’s 
one ahead.” 

“ What do you mean, sir ? ” 

I tapped the Morning Leader. 

“ If he’d scored four hundred and seventy-three 
when he wrote this,” I said, “ now that they’ve 

70 


GIBSON AND THE RIVALS 

printed it, he’s one up on you. Don’t you see 
that ? ” 

Albert gave a groan, and tottered against his 
desk. 

“ I shall never do it,” he said. “ And even if I 
did, how can I say that my letters are my 4 own 
unassisted conStruStion ? ’ Why, you know they’re 
not, sir. I should think quite fifteen of the ones 
that they’ve taken were put together by you.” 

“ Brace up now, Albert,” I said. “ Be a man. 
Why should Tufnell have any more right to fix the 
rules of this competition than you have yourself ? 
Whoever experts a horse to win the Derby without 
a trainer ? All I’ve done is to give you a little 
advice, and show you how to spread your faSts as 
thin as they’ll go. You can bet your life that 
Tufnell hasn’t written four hundred and seventy- 
three letters without getting hints from someone. 
It couldn’t be done.” 

But Albert declined to be comforted. 

“I’ve loSt my amateur Status,” he kept on saying. 
“ You can’t get away from that, Mr. Gibson. 
Don’t think me ungrateful, but I ought never to 
have let you help me. If I couldn’t beat Tufnell 
off my own bat, then I never deserved to win.” 

I left him at that, for I muSt admit that my 
feelings were a little hurt after all that I had done 

7i 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


for him. I went back to my negledted Roman law, 
and that night for the firSt time for a month I left 
the chambers without handing over a single draft 
letter. I wasn’t going to force my assistance on 
anyone who didn’t want it. 

But the next morning Albert met me wreathed 
in smiles. By some extraordinary Stroke of luck, 
due partly, no doubt, to the approach of the silly 
season, no less than five of his letters had found 
places in five different morning papers. And as 
chance would have it, although they were all 
modelled on my improved Style, every one of them 
had been his own unaided work. My sporting 
inStindls overcame my sense of his ingratitude. 

“ Keep it up, Albert,” I said. “ If you can do as 
well as this without my help, I’m certainly not 
going to force you into professionalism. At this 
rate you’ll win even without counting my contribu¬ 
tions.” 

I wrung his hand warmly, and our reconciliation 
was complete. For the reSt of the match I would 
become a spectator, and nothing more. 

We waited anxiously for Romeike’s next bundle 
of clippings; but the days passed and Still they 
didn’t come. Had Tufnell been taken ill, I won¬ 
dered, or had he thrown up the sponge ? It was 
impossible to tell; but meanwhile Albert’s score 

72 


GIBSON AND THE RIVALS 


was mounting slowly but surely. He had a bad 
week after that miraculous five, but by the end of 
another fortnight he had passed four hundred and 
eighty, and £till there came no sign or sound from 
his rival. It looked as if, after all, the thing were 
going to end in a walk-over. 

And then the very la£t day of the Trinity term, 
when I was working alone in the chambers—for the 
other pupils had already left—he came into my 
room with an open letter and placed it before me. 

“ What am I to do about this, sir ? ” he asked in 
an uncomfortable voice. 

I took the letter and flattened it out on my table. 
Then I gave a £lart. 

“ Good heavens 1 ” I said. “ Tufnell himself! ” 

Albert nodded grimly, and I began to read. 

I can’t quote the whole of the letter, for it covered 
an entire sheet of foolscap. But quite briefly it was 
nothing more nor less than an appeal for mercy. 
Tufnell explained that he had set his heart on 
holding the record for amateur correspondence, 
that he had worked for years with this sole end in 
view, and that success had come to be the whole 
obje£t of his life. For the la£t six weeks, he said, 
he had never on a single day addressed less than 
fifteen letters to the London and provincial Press, 
but either overwork mud have injured his £tyle or 

73 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


his la£t communication to the Morning Leader mu£t 
have set the editors against him, for not a single one 
of them had been printed. He realized that his 
present pre-eminence muSt mean very much to so 
distinguished a correspondent as Mr. Slaughter, 
but it was impossible that he could wish to triumph 
if he knew the bitter disappointment which this 
would give his opponent. He appealed to Mr. 
Slaughter’s generosity either to refrain from writing 
letters to the Press until the editors had forgiven 
his (Tufnell’s) indiscretion, or else to make use of 
another signature. Finally, he begged and be¬ 
sought Mr. Slaughter not to come to an unfavour¬ 
able decision without at leaSt affording the oppor¬ 
tunity for an interview. 

“ What do you think, sir ? ” said Albert, when 
he saw that I had finished. 

“ Think! ” I exclaimed. “ It’s the mod pitiable, 
the moSt un-English, and the mod unsporting 
suggestion that I’ve ever heard. The man has 
ruined his chances of winning, by boaSting before 
he was out of the wood; and now he experts you to 
help him. I never heard of such impertinence. ,, 

Albert looked at me nervously. 

“ I can’t help feeling sorry for him, sir,” he said. 

“ Why ? ” I asked. “ Why can’t he take his 
beating like a gentleman ? No, Albert, you’ll 

74 


GIBSON AND THE RIVALS 


forgive my saying so, but pity for a man like Tuf- 
nell is nothing less than weakness. To answer a 
letter like that would be unworthy of you as a 
citizen of the British Empire.” 

“ Perhaps you're right, sir,” said Albert; and 
he picked the letter up and took himself off. 

When I said good-bye to him that afternoon I 
was so certain that he would follow my advice that 
I asked him to send me a telegram as soon as his 
five hundredth letter was printed, and I gave him, 
as far as I could, my addresses for August and 
September. 

“ Don’t forget, Albert,” I said. “ And mind, 
no trifling with Tufnell.” 

“ That’s all right, sir,” he answered, and we 

shook hands and parted. 

* * * * * * 

Gibson closed his eyes thoughtfully and leant 
back in his chair. 

“ And did he win ? ” I asked. 

“ Who ? ” said Gibson. “ Albert ? No, he did 
not win. And neither did Tufnell. The competi¬ 
tion was never finished.” 

“ Why not ? ” I asked again. 

“ The old, old £tory,” murmured Gibson, 
dreamily. “ The chink in the armour. Cherchez 
la femme” 


IS 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


“ La femme ? ” I repeated. “ But where on 
earth did she come in ? 

“ She’d been there all the time,” said Gibson. 
“ I might have guessed it from that letter, for 
they’re an unscrupulous sex.” 

“ But you don’t mean to say that Tufnell-” 

“ Exactly.” He nodded. “ G ftood for Ger¬ 
trude. As soon as my back was turned, Albert 
went off to her address. With such a bond between 
them as this craze for coincidences, the thing was 
inevitable. They were married before the long 
vacation was over. When I next saw Albert he 
told me that they’d agreed to retire from public 
life. So far as I know neither of them has ever 
written to the Press from that day to this.” 

“You mud have been sorry you’d taken so 
much trouble,” I suggested, without committing 
myself further. 

“ Oh, I don’t know,” said Gibson, off-handedly. 
“ Albert was a good fellow in a way.” He looked 
down hastily at the newspaper which he had been 
nursing all this time on his lap. “ He was always 
grateful for what I’d tried to do,” he added. “ He 
even called his eldest son Henry; after me.” 

“ Did he ? ” I said. “ That was nice of him. 
And now, how does that newspaper come into it 
all ? ” 


76 



GIBSON AND THE RIVALS 


“ Oh,” he answered, perhaps ju£l a shade too 
airily. “ That’s the curious thing. That’s what 
reminded me of the whole £tory.” He handed the 
paper across to me. “ Ju£t read that letter on the 
middle of page five,” he said. “ My namesake 
seems to be winning his spurs. Heredity’s a 
strange business.” 

“ Is this a letter from Albert’s son, then ? ” I 
asked. 

“ It mud be,” said Gibson, rising to his feet and 
taking out his watch. “ Well, au revoir ,” he added. 
“ I’m afraid I’ve some work to finish. I hope I 
haven’t kept you from anything.” 

I watched him pass out through the swing doors 
of the smoking-room, and then I turned back to the 
newspaper. 

With my previous experience of my unusual 
fellow member I dtill more than half expected to 
find no letter there at all. But I was wrong. 
Gibson’s evidence was, at firdt sight, complete. 

“ Sir,” I read, 

“ How many of your readers can claim, 
I wonder, that their weddings have taken 
place on the same day of the year and at the 
same time as those of both their parents and 
grandparents ? This has been so in my case, 

77 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


and on each occasion the bride’s name began 
with the letter ‘ G.’ It would be interesting 
to learn whether this coincidence constitutes a 
record. 

Yours, etc., 

F. Tufnell Slaughter.” 

For a moment, as I let this imbecile communica¬ 
tion sink into my brain, I almoSt believed that, 
subject perhaps to permissible exaggeration, Gib¬ 
son had been telling me the truth. The Story was 
improbable certainly, but it wasn’t incredible, as 
his previous efforts had been. 

And then I looked again, and I remembered 
something. His la£t, quick, short-sighted glance 
at the newspaper juSt before he had passed it to 
me, and the words which had followed that look. 
I realized suddenly that in that inStant he had 
risked temptation and been betrayed. For how¬ 
ever ingeniously the re£l of his Story might fit this 
evidence on page five, and whatever feminine 
names might or might not be represented by the 
initial “ G,” by no conceivable means could the 
letter “ F ” be taken as an abbreviation for 
“ Henry.” 

Inspired by that ridiculous paragraph he mu£l 
have made the whole thing up from £lart to finish! 

78 


GIBSON AND THE RIVALS 


For a brief second this discovery held me sus¬ 
pended between indignation and laughter, and 
while I was £till uncertain which of these would 
conquer, a third feeling stepped in and possessed 
me utterly. And the name of that feeling was 
Envy. 

How dared anybody think out their plots as 
easily as Gibson! 


79 


IV 

THE STORY OF COLONEL TURPENTINE 


I INTRODUCE the word “ ftory ” into my 
title deliberately and advisedly. You who have 
shared my adventures with Henry Gibson up to 
this point will possibly wonder why I have not done 
so before. But what I am getting at is that it was 
after the narrative of the Tufnell-Slaughter content 
that I firSt definitely decided that the question of 
Gibson’s veracity should no longer be allowed to 
trouble me. For if he chose to amuse himself— 
for some eccentric reason of his own—by pretend¬ 
ing that his reminiscences were true, wasn’t he also 
amusing me ? And to be amused by anything that 
took place in the Caviare smoking-room was too 
rare and pleasant an experience to risk losing by 
any hair-splitting insistence on the separation of 
fadl from fiSfion. 

And so my tea-time visits to my Club began to 
increase in number; for now that I had achieved 
this new and broad-minded point of view, the hope 
of further entertainment from this irresponsible 

80 


THE STORY OF COLONEL TURPENTINE 


source made it impossible for me to keep away. 
Yet for the time being it almost looked as though 
my change of attitude had come too late. Long as 
I lingered over my tea and muffin during my next 
three visits, not once did Gibson raise his bird-like 
head from where he sat at the corner writing-table, 
scratching away interminably with his fountain- 
pen, and scowling ferociously at its point. What 
work he was engaged on I had no idea, but to 
interrupt such tremendous concentration of mind 
was beyond me; and when, at my fourth visit, I 
found him Still hard at it, I began to fear that the 
three stories which he had already told me were to 
be all that I should ever hear. 

But even as I endeavoured to reconcile myself to 
this thought I suddenly saw him lean back in his 
chair, thrust his pen into his pocket, shrug his 
shoulders, and, gathering up the loose sheets of his 
manuscript, cross quickly to the fireplace. He 
glanced once round the room to see if he were 
observed, and then, to my astonishment, with a 
swift movement he tore the sheaf of paper across 
and dropped the pieces among the burning coals. 
Having done this, he jerked down the points of his 
waiStcoat, frowned, grinned, and immediately made 
a bee-line in my direction. 

“ Ashes to ashes,” he murmured, with an air of 

81 


G 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


profound gloom. And then, as if to prevent my 
asking him what on earth he meant, he sank into 
the chair by my side, and went on. 

“ Did I,” he asked, “ ever tell you the strange 
incident of my old friend Colonel Turpentine ? ” 

He shot a quick look at me, as if to see how I 
would Ctand this name. But in my new mood I 
didn’t turn a hair. 

“ No,” I said. “ Never.” 

“ I will tell it you now, then,” he answered, and 
crossing his legs, he began at once. 

* * * * * * 

A good many years ago (said Gibson), when I 
was in the tobacco business, I once had occasion to 
pay a visit to a town in the State of Kentucky, 
which I should prefer, if I may, to designate by the 
imaginary name of Binksburg. My business was 
to keep me there for several weeks, and although I 
hadn’t provided myself with any special letters of 
introduction, it wasn’t long before I had made 
enough friends in the bar of my hotel to have been 
given cards for both the principal clubs. American 
hospitality is, of course, proverbial, and Binksburg 
was no exception to the general rule. When my 
work was over for the day, I was glad enough to be 
able to drop into one or other of these places, and 
either join in a game of cards or listen to the 

82 


THE STORY OF COLONEL TURPENTINE 


members exchanging Glories. It was a pleasant 
change from my hotel, in the hall of which, accord¬ 
ing to the usual custom, I transacted mot of my 
business. 

There was, I mud admit, a certain similarity 
about the men whom I met in this way, which 
might have made a longer visit seem less attractive. 
They all wore the same clothes, ordered the same 
drinks, told the same anecdotes, boated of the 
same reckless pats, and expressed the same polite 
surprise at hearing that I was an Englishman. 
But the one who carried all these qualities to the 
mot accentuated degree, the one who served if not 
as the highet common fadtor then certainly as the 
lowet common denominator of Binksburg society 
was the hero of this adventure, Colonel Hexagon 
Turpentine. 

Though I have no definite knowledge as to his 
age, I should imagine that he was between sixty 
and seventy, and I gathered that he enjoyed a 
small pension, supplemented by pretty extensive 
sponging among his friends. He had a husky, 
confidential voice, a wicked and experienced- 
looking eye, and he wore a goatee; which la£t is 
less common in the United States than you may 
have been led to suppose. If I had been making a 
permanent slop in this particular town there would 

83 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


have been no one whom I should have taken more 
trouble to keep at a safe distance. But as I was 
only there for three weeks, and my return was 
extremely doubtful, there was no need to take any 
special precautions. And, frankly, he amused me. 

Late at night, when he had filled himself up with 
highballs and mint julep so full that you would 
have thought he’d have burdt, he used to call for a 
concodtion known as Chili con came —a kind of 
soup, or tea, which took all the skin off the inside 
of one’s mouth in about five seconds—and while 
he sipped this, he would become tearfully senti¬ 
mental about his padt life. 

“ My poor old mother,” he used to say. “There, 
if you like, was one of nature’s gentlewomen. It’s 
forty years since I saw her, for my father had the 
custody of the children when my old home broke 
up. I respedled my father, sir. I never went 
againdt his wishes. I never saw my mother after 
they parted. But for all that, she was a woman in a 
million.” He rolled his brimming eyes towards 
the ceiling. “ One of the bedt families in Kentucky 
she came from. Proud as you make ’em. Passion¬ 
ate and headdtrong, if you insidt; but a true woman. 
My father was a great man in his way, a fine man, 
a distinguished man; but it’s my mother that I’ve 
always taken after.” 


84 


THE STORY OF COLONEL TURPENTINE 


And here he would bury his face in his Gleaming 
cup and gulp down his horrible brew, while his 
shoulders heaved with emotion. 

“ My wife, too,” he would resume, emerging 
again. “ A splendid woman, if ever there was one. 
A noble creature. An amazon. One of the oldest 
families in Kentucky. I broke her heart. I admit 
it. She loved me, sir. I tell you that woman loved 
the very soles of my shoes. But I was wild. I 
never could resist a pretty face; and it wore her 
down. Poor girl, she couldn’t tand the strain. 
She left me. Though she worshipped the very air 
that I breathed, the very ground that I trod on, she 
left me. But if I could meet her now, I know she 
would tell me that she was happier with old Hex 
Turpentine than ever she was with her other 
husbands. I know it; I know it.” 

And then he would set down his empty cup, 
accept one of my cigars, and begin telling endless 
stories of the old days in Binksburg, when, for 
example, he and Major Mackintosh—the late 
editor of the Times-Courier-D eurocrat —were both 
boys together. How Mackintosh had once spent 
all night hanging by one hand to Mrs. General 
Wengler’s balcony, because the General had 
returned unexpectedly from Wet Point; and how 
in the morning, when he had been found there and 

85 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


challenged to mortal combat, he—old Hex Tur¬ 
pentine—had taken his friend’s place on the field of 
battle; for Mac’s hand was so swollen he couldn’t 
get even his little finger inside a trigger-guard. 
No, sir, he certainly could not. 

The adtual upshot of this duel was never dis¬ 
closed, for imperceptibly Colonel Turpentine had 
slipped off into the £tory of the night when, for a 
bet, he had drunk five bottles of rye whisky, and 
then climbed the Veterans’ Monument on Union 
Square, and tied little somebody-or-other-whose 
name-I’ve-forgotten’s stockings to the statue on 
the top. And while I was £till wondering how on 
earth he had got down again, I found we were in 
the middle of yet another anecdote of how he had 
ridden sixty miles, in the middle of winter, and in 
three hours and twelve minutes exa£tly, in order to 
keep his promise to dance with the beautiful Miss 
Cumberland. “ You know, the one there was all 
that talk about afterwards.” 

I didn’t know, of course, though I could imagine 
where much of the talk mud have come from. But 
it was atmosphere, and not accuracy, that I was out 
for, and this I was certainly getting, in its richest 
and its fruitiest form. Never can there have been 
such an abominable old boy. And equally abom¬ 
inable whether his unspeakable exploits were true 

86 


THE STORY OF COLONEL TURPENTINE 


or false. For mind you, I have only quoted him 
at his more presentable £lage. With his second 
bumper of Chili con came he was well over the edge 
of anything that could possibly be repeated by me. 

But Still, perhaps it is only fair to say that he was 
led on. Not by myself, I swear. But his fellow 
members used to gather round us, perching them¬ 
selves on the arms of chairs and the tops of tables, 
and whenever this impure fountain showed the 
slightest sign of drying up, a word of doubt from 
one of them would set him off again, determined at 
all coSts to beat his own record. It was a pretty 
brutal kind of sport, I dare say, but old Turpentine 
never saw the smiles which passed among them, 
and entertainment in Binksburg wasn’t so easily 
met with that one could blame these men for 
seeking it here. And again, though they laughed 
at him behind his back, they had very Stridt ideas 
as to how far one might go before his face. For in 
a way they were proud of him, even if this pride 
hardly went further than the admission which was 
made to me one evening, “ Yes, sir, we certainly 
reckon that the Colonel’s a pretty interesting kind 
of a survival.” 

My three weeks in the dirty little town slipped 
quickly paSt, and a couple of nights before I was 

87 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


due to move on again, two or three of the men with 
whom I had done mo£t of my business announced 
that on my final evening they would entertain me to 
dinner at the Blue Grass Club, and that to follow 
this up they had taken a box for the burlesque show 
at Schultz’s Opera House. 

“ Of course,” they said, with unnecessary 
candour, “ it won’t be quite the same as Macauley’s 
Theatre in Louisville or any of them swell places, 
but old Schultz books some pretty live pieces every 
now and again; and anyway, with the kind of 
dinner we’ve fixed for you, we calculate the show 
can take care of itself.” 

I had the utmu£l belief in everything that they 
said, for I already knew something about the drinks 
at the Blue Grass Club; and I was juSt beginning 
to express my gratitude in suitable language when 
I was interrupted by a haSty frown from one side 
and a nudge from the other. 

“ Cut it out,” said my principal ho£l hurriedly. 
“ Schultz’s boxes ain’t any too big.” 

For the moment I was at a loss to understand 
this mySterious warning, and then suddenly, as I 
realized why it had come, I knew also that it had 
come too late. 

“ What’s this, boys ? ” I heard a third voice 
breaking in. “ A little entertainment for Mr. 

88 


THE STORY OF COLONEL TURPENTINE 


Gibson here ? Well, say, I should rather guess I’m 
in on this.” 

Did I mention that American hospitality is pro¬ 
verbial ? It well may be. My three ho£ls turned 
to the newcomer as one man. 

“ Of course, Colonel,” they said. “ We shall 
be only too glad to have you join us.” 

Colonel Turpentine chuckled wheezily. 

“ That’s right, boys,” he said. “ You sure 
couldn’t give a farewell party to my friend here 
without asking old Hex. Why, ’twouldn’t be no 
farewell without the olde£l member. I’ll take great 
pleasure, Mr. Gibson,” he added, fixing me with 
his cloudy eyes, “ in drinking your health to¬ 
morrow night, and accompanying you and the boys 
here to Schultz’s. But you’ll pardon me if I don’t 
wear my tuxedo. Fa6t being,” he concluded, 
“ that I ain’t got none.” 

I wasn’t sure that I had quite apprehended this 
la£t remark, but as my ho£t seemed, if not satisfied, at 
lea£t reconciled to this addition to our party, I bowed 
politely, and we all adjourned to the nearest bar. 

My la£t day was a pretty full one, for I had left a 
good deal to be crowded into it, and by seven 
o’clock—the time of my invitation to the Blue 
Grass Club—I was ready enough for the boasted 
dinner. I won’t tell you everything that I ate, for 

89 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


it would give both of us indigestion to hear of it, 

and I’m certainly not going to tell you what I drank. 

But I had an unusually Slrong head in those days, 

and though I was exhilarated, no one could possibly 

have charged me with anything worse. We were a 

party of four, for one of my hoSls had been called 

suddenly out of town, and between us we muSl 

have had a fairly serious effedf on the Club cellars. 

¥ 

But not one of us got going so quickly or kept at it 
so hard as the gentleman who had described him¬ 
self as the oldeSl member. The amount of liquor 
that man put away was simply incredible. And yet, 
although his glass seemed continually and perpetu¬ 
ally propped againSt his draggling goatee, he never 
once ceased regaling us with excerpts from his re¬ 
pertoire. By the time that we were ready to move 
he had got well into what one might call his Chili 
con came diage. He ogled and leered at us as he 
poured forth his adventures with what he described 
as “ the Sex,” completely regardless of whether he 
were being listened to or not. He chuckled and 
coughed and dug a shaky finger into my ribs to 
emphasize the grosser parts of his Glories. He was 
Silenus and FaldlafF rolled into one, and with the 
addition of the richest Kentucky accent. He was 
horrible and inconceivable. He almost made me 
believe in Hell. 


90 


THE STORY OF COLONEL TURPENTINE 


At the end of dinner a Stogie was forced into his 
mouth and lighted, and we all staggered to our feet. 

“ Now then, Colonel,” said one of my hoSts. 
“ Are you sure you feel up to coming on to 
Schultz’s ? ” 

“ What, miss all those lovely girls ? ” said 
Colonel Turpentine loudly. “ What do you take 
me for ? Mr. Gibson, sir,” he added, lurching in 
my direction, “ do you think I don’t know Low to 
do honour to a distinguished visitor ? Old Hex is 
with you to the end.” 

We all bowed before the inevitable, helped him 
into his hat, and set forth into the Street. Colonel 
Turpentine took the arm of one of my friends, while 
I followed behind with the other. 

“ Aren’t you afraid he’ll break his neck ? ” I 
asked, pointing to the tortuous course which the 
couple in front were taking. 

“ Neck ? ” said my companion derisively. “ I 
might be, if he had one.” 

I laughed. 

“ Well, I hope he won’t have a fit,” I substituted. 

“ And I hope he won’t get us turned out of the 
Opera House,” said my friend. “ Old Schultz 
don’t like it when the audience joins in the songs.” 

A brief vision of my train pulling out of Binks- 
burg on the following morning, while Colonel 

9i 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


Turpentine and I languished together in the town 
gaol, seemed to flutter before me. But I was the 
gue£l of the evening, and I realized that I should 
have to see things through. An encouraging sug¬ 
gestion came from my companion. 

“ He’ll probably sleep moSt of the time,” he 
said. And in another minute we had reached our 
destination. 

The Binksburg Opera House muSt, I should say, 
unquestionably have been the dirtieSt thing in the 
whole of that superlatively dirty town. One 
trembled to think what might not lurk in the dark¬ 
ness on the floor of our box, and before it was pos¬ 
sible to get a view of the £tage, it was necessary to 
draw back a pair of the greasieSt lace curtains that 
I have ever met. We took our seats to the accom¬ 
paniment of the overture, and I was relieved to find 
that Colonel Turpentine did indeed seem to have 
sunk into a temporary Stupor. By a kind of tacit 
agreement the reSt of us drew our chairs away from 
him, and conversed in whispers. 

“ Does anyone know what this show’s called ? ” 
I asked. 

One of my hoSts consulted his programme. 

“ ‘ The Girls of Gay Paree,’ ” he answered. 

In spite of the excellence of my dinner, I felt a 
vague kind of depression; but I £lruggled against it. 

92 


THE STORY OF COLONEL TURPENTINE 


“ That sounds fine,” I said. 

But whatever it sounded, I knew as soon as the 
curtain rose that I was in for the mod appalling 
entertainment of my life. If the prisons had been 
full, one might have been sorry for the performers, 
condemned to bawl such nauseating banality and 
flounder through such meaningless horrors; but as 
long as there was a cell untenanted, it was impos¬ 
sible to see why they should persist in avoiding a 
life of straightforward crime. Of burlesque, in the 
English sense of the word, there was none, except 
in so far as the thing burlesqued itself. And of 
reference to Gay Paree in any shape or form there 
was, perhaps fortunately, Still less. 

There was a comedian who talked like a Stage 
German, and a comedian who talked like a Stage 
negro; but even if one could have overlooked the 
fadt that they were trying to be funny, they would 
have driven one mad. For the negro sang a song 
about his delicatessen Store, and the German sang 
one about the cotton fields and the Mason-Dixon 
line. You'd have thought they would juSt have 
had the sense not to do that. 

There was a young lady with gold teeth who 
sang about the moon in June, and whenever she 
did this, ten terrible harridans came sidling in from 
the wings and yelled the chorus almoSt entirely on 

93 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


one note. And there was a woman who mud 
have weighed about fifteen done—or, in American, 
two hundred and ten pounds—who wore tights and 
carried a wand like the fairy queen’s, and I never 
discovered from fird to lad whether, for the pur¬ 
poses of the drama, she was supposed to be male or 
female. All the points in the comic scenes were 
led up to by the characters explaining exaCtly what 
they were going to do, so that by the time they did 
it you wished they were dead; and every joke that 
might have dood a dog’s chance if it had been left 
to itself, was repeated six times whether the audi¬ 
ence laughed or not. To do them justice, they 
generally didn’t. 

And there was a Child; at lead: she was dressed 
as a child. . . . 

About two-thirds of the way through the fird 
part, Mr. Ed Willcox, the elder of my two friends, 
leant forward and tapped me on the arm. 

“ Say,” he whispered, “ I guess I didn’t drink 
enough, or else I’m not as young as I was. If this 
gets you the way it gets me, what about going back 
to the Club ? ” 

At the same moment Mr. Bud Seltzer, my other 
hod, bent over me and murmured in my other ear: 
“ Say, this is a pretty bum outfit. Shall we beat 


94 


THE STORY OF COLONEL TURPENTINE 


I was glad to be thus informed that even in 
Binksburg people knew a thoroughly bad thing 
when they saw it. 

“ I’m all for leaving,” I replied. “ But what 
about the Colonel ? ” 

We all three turned to look at him, and even as 
we did so he tilted over in my direction and tapped 
me on the knee. I understood him to make some 
remark about a peach. 

“ What’s that ? ” I asked. 

Colonel Turpentine didn’t repeat his observa¬ 
tion, whatever it had been. Instead, he firSt laid 
his finger againSt the side of his nose, then closed 
one eye, and concluded by blowing a kiss in the 
diredtion of the £tage. 

I turned enquiringly to Mr. Willcox. 

“ Do you understand what he means r ” I 
whispered. 

Mr. Willcox gave a muffled groan. 

“ We won’t get him out of here without some 
trouble,” he confided to me. “ We’d better wait 
for the interval now. If we tell him it’s the end, I 
guess he won’t know any better.” 

I nodded agreement, and for another fifteen 
minutes or so we Stuck to our poSts, while the 
Negro and the German went through the comic 
shoe-shining scene which preceded the firSt finale. 

95 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


But something went wrong about that interval. 
For directly the curtain had fallen, a man stepped 
in front of the advertisements with which it was 
covered and announced that at enormous expense 
he had engaged La Exquisita to present what he 
described as her “Specialty Olio A61”; and 
before we had a chance to move, the thing had 
started. 

The management mu£t have had a touching 
belief in theatrical illusion, for although La 
Exquisita was attired in Turkish trousers, it was 
quite obvious that she was no other than that 
unspeakable Child. She went through a very 
violent dance of the type which is, I am informed, 
known professionally as “ Hootchi-Kootchi,” and 
the instant she had finished the curtain rose on the 
second part of the burlesque. 

Messrs. Willcox and Seltzer gave utterance to 
subdued oaths, and I’m not sure that I didn’t join 
them. But American hospitality being, as I think 
I have remarked, proverbial, it was clear that they 
daren’t suggest a move as long as Colonel Turpen¬ 
tine wanted to £fay. And that Colonel Turpentine 
had fallen a complete victim to the charms of that 
Child could no longer possibly be doubted. 

A perfect fusillade of winks was proceeding from 
his codfish eyes, he beat his hands together and 

96 


THE STORY OF COLONEL TURPENTINE 


Clamped on the floor of the box whenever she ap¬ 
peared, and a running comment on her attractions, 
in which the words “ lallapalooza ” and “ peacher- 
ino ” occurred with great frequency, poured 
unceasingly from his lips. And then something 
sfill worse happened. The Child suddenly caught 
his eye, and from this moment until the end of the 
performance her aCting—if one could use such a 
term—was directed entirely at our box. Never 
have I witnessed such a base parody of romance as 
the behaviour of this fuddled old satyr and that 
terrible infant. Even American hospitality wilted 
under the strain. 

But in vain did Messrs. Seltzer and Willcox 
tempt the Colonel to come out and have another 
drink; even the promise of unlimited Chili con 
came left him adamant. 

“ No, no, boys,” he said. “ We’ll sit right here. 
This is certainly a bully show, and I’m not going 
to let my little friend over there see me go out 
before the finish. She and I kind of underhand 
each other, we do.” 

My two hoCts had to give it up, but for the re£t 
of the performance we drew back out of sight of 
the Ctage and talked among ourselves, leaving 
Colonel Turpentine to carry on his public flirtation 
alone. Whenever we glanced at him we saw him 

97 H 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


goggling over the edge of the box, but somehow we 
didn’t look at him more than we could help. 

At laSt there came a concerted howl from the 
Girls of Gay Paree, a tempestuous skirling from the 
orcheStra, a faint sound of applause from the 
audience, and the burlesque was over. My hoSts 
and I leapt to our feet and propelled Colonel 
Turpentine out into the corridor, and so into the 
Street. There he suddenly Stopped. 

“ Well, boys,” he said. “ We’ve certainly had 
a great evening. But you’re young men Still, and 
I’m getting on. I guess, if it’s all the same to you, 
I’ll leave you here.” 

“ What ? ” said Mr. Willcox, in astonishment. 
“ Aren’t you coming back to the Club ? ” 

“ No, boys,” answered the Colonel. “ I’m not 
so young as I was. I’ll juSt shake my old friend 
Mr. Gibson’s hand here and now, and then I’ll 
quit.” And suiting his adlion to these words, he 
gave an unsteady bow and rolled heavily away. 

“ What’s come to the poor fish ? ” enquired 
Mr. Seltzer, Staring after him. “ I never knew 
him to adl so queer.” 

“ Search me,” said Mr. Willcox. “ I guess the 
drama’s turned him sick.” 

For another minute we all three ftood gazing 
at the corner round which Colonel Turpentine had 

98 


THE STORY OF COLONEL TURPENTINE 


vanished, and then, unexpectedly, he suddenly 
reappeared. 

I opened my mouth to speak, but Mr. Willcox 
stopped me with a nudge. 

“ Not so young as he was, ain’t he ? ” he said. 
“ I’m on to his game now. Keep Ctill here, and 
we’ll watch him.” 

We all drew back into a doorway, and the 
Colonel went paCt the front of the Opera House 
without seeing us. And as he reached the other 
corner, he turned, and dived down an alley-way. 

“ Geel ” said Mr. Seltzer. “ He’s going to call 
on Little Lord Fauntleroy. Now we’re going to 
see something.” 

“ Old Schultz won’t never let him in,” said Mr. 
Willcox. “ He won’t want the Vigilance Com¬ 
mittee closing up his theater.” 

We crossed silently to the entrance to the alley 
and peered down it. At the further end Colonel 
Turpentine seemed to be engaged in heated argu¬ 
ment with the guardian of the Stage Door. 

“ I’m only asking you to give her my card, 
young feller,” we heard him shout; and then came 
the doorkeeper’s answer: “I dassn’t do it, Colonel; 
the Boss’s orders is mighty CtriCl.” 

I saw the Colonel feel in his pockets, as if 
searching for the money that wasn’t there; and at 

99 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


his failure the doorkeeper became more insistent 
than ever. 

“ Now then, Colonel,” he said. “ Don’t you 
go for to get me into trouble. I tell you, it can’t be 
done.” 

“ You’re a very insolent feller,” said Colonel 
Turpentine, and he turned haughtily away. 

We hurriedly crossed the street again, but, as 
we had expedted, as soon as he reached the front 
of the Opera House, the Colonel stopped 
again. 

“ He’s going to watch for her to come out,” 
whispered Mr. Seltzer. “ I guess we’ll wait for 
the fun.” 

I admit that I felt certain scruples about spying 
even on an old reprobate like this, but I reminded 
myself of the old proverb, “ When in Binksburg, 
do as the Binksburgians do.” I huddled back Still 
further into the doorway and waited. 

It wasn’t long before the company began to 
come straggling up the alley. FirSt of all the Stage 
hands and the members of the orcheStra; then a 
little group of harridans; then—easily recogniz¬ 
able—the heavy-weight fairy queen; then a knot 
of men, which may have contained the two come¬ 
dians ; and at laSt, her corkscrew curls Still nodding 
beneath her veil, that incredible Child. 


ioo 


THE STORY OF COLONEL TURPENTINE 


As she turned the corner, Colonel Turpentine 
raised his hat. 

“ Pardon me, madam,” I heard him begin, but 
she cut him short at once. 

“ Now then, you big Stiff,” she said warmly, yet, 
as it seemed to me, not altogether in displeasure. 
“ J’want me to call a cop ? ” 

“ If you would allow me-” began the 

Colonel again, and again he was interrupted. 

“ Fresh enough, aincher ? ” said the Child 
skittishly. “ Who are you, anyway ? ” 

“ A worshipper at your altar,” answered the 
Colonel gallantly. “ An admirer of your genius. 
My name is Turpentine.” 

The effe£t of this disclosure was astounding. 

“ Hex! ” shrieked the Child, tottering againSt 
the nearest Street lamp. “ Hex! Don’t you know 
me ? ” She tore at her veil as she spoke, and I saw 
the Colonel Stagger backward. He well might. 

“ There’s some mistake,” he said hoarsely, and 
he looked round as if meditating inStant flight. 
But the Child was too quick for him. With a leap 
she had flung her arms about him. 

“ At laSt, at laSt,” she cried. “ After all these 
years. Oh, Hex, to think that we should meet like 
this!” 

I saw the would-be Lothario battling feebly 

IOI 



ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


within her embrace; I heard Mr. Seltzer whisper 
in my ear, “ Golly! It’s one of his wives I felt 
Mr. Willcox forcing his way pa£t me; and the 
next moment I saw Colonel Turpentine shake 
himself free and run like an antiquated lamp¬ 
lighter. 

And as he ran, the creature with the ringlets 
called piercingly after him; “Hex! Hex! Listen 
to me! Don’t you know me ? I am your mother\ ” 

'L- 'j/. 'I*. ^k- 

<v> «T> vJC /Jf v|v 

Gibson stopped suddenly and grinned at me. 

“ You didn’t expedl that, did you ? ” he asked. 

“ Not altogether,” I had to admit, amazed again, 
in spite of myself, at his impudence. 

“ I did the American talk well, don’t you think?” 
he went on complacently. 

“ Oh, splendidly,” I heard myself saying. 

“ Of course,” said Gibson, leaning back and 
closing his eyes, “ one misses the epilogue. One 
ought, in a way, to have a final scene. It would have 
been a good touch to have explained how Turpen¬ 
tine never told any more Glories from that day to his 
death. But it was better to £top at the real climax. 
And besides,” he added, yawning, “ I told you 
that I left Binksburg the next morning, so unless 
I’d made somebody write me a letter, it would have 
been difficult to work it in.” 


102 


THE STORY OF COLONEL TURPENTINE 


In spite of all that I had told myself, my brain 
felt suddenly a little unsteady. 

“ Excuse me,” I said slowly; “ but let’s try and 
get this clear. Are you—I mean to say, is it—I 
mean, hang it all, why do you always try and make 
out these Glories are true ? What I mean is, what’s 
the idea ? ” 

I waited a moment, and then repeated: “What’s 
the idea ? ” 

But my only answer was the sound of peaceful 
breathing. The inexplicable Gibson was fa£t 
asleep. 


103 


V 

GIBSON AND THE SPECIALIST 


P ERHAPS you have wondered,” said Gibson 
the next time that I saw him, and before I 
could reopen the question which his sudden lapse 
into slumber had left unanswered; “ perhaps you 
have wondered why it is that, although Still in the 
prime of life, I am to be found so continuously 
waiting my time and substance within the confines 
of this by no means stimulating Club. You ask 
yourself, doubtless, how in these Strenuous days 
any man can be content to retire thus early from 
the battleground of his profession; or how he can 
reconcile it with his conscience to become, when 
Still so far from the age of the psalmiSt, a mere 
passenger, as it were, on the vessel of sublunary 
existence.” He gave a fleeting smile, as of satis¬ 
faction at the beauty of his own language, and 
looked at me enquiringly. 

“ I won’t pretend,” I answered, “that something 
of the sort hasn’t crossed my mind. But, after all, 
mot people retire when they can afford to retire; 

104 


GIBSON AND THE SPECIALIST 


and there are plenty of men here who’ve never 
even had anything to retire from. Please don’t 
take my interest in the Glories that you have told 
me as implying curiosity about your private 
affairs.” 

I thought I had put it rather neatly. Yet in 
Gibson’s face there appeared a look of momentary 
disappointment. 

“ My dear sir,” he said, “ I have no secrets from 
anyone. My paft is an open book. And,” he 
added, with determination, “ I insift on telling you 
why it was that I gave up one of the moft lucrative 
solicitor’s practices in the whole of the City of 
London.” 

Now, as you who have read thus far are well 
aware, Gibson had already represented himself to 
me as a journalift, a barrifter, a tobacco merchant, 
and as the kind of man—if there be such a kind of 
man—who alternated walking tours in North 
Wales with visits to Monte Carlo. I opened my 
mouth to proteft at the introduction of this fresh 
calling; but as I did so, some hint of what I can 
only describe as truftful anxiety in the creature’s 
eyes, made me ftop. One simply couldn’t queftion 
a man who looked at one like that. It would have 
been like laughing at one’s dog. 

“ Juft wait a moment while I order my tea,” I 

105 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 

said, “ and then I shall be delighted to hear about 
it.” 

He gave a sigh of relief. 

“ It’s very good of you,” he murmured. “ I...” 

He broke off and sat there drumming with his 
fingers on the arm of his chair, while the smoking- 
room waiter attended to my simple requests. And 
then, as soon as we were alone again, he began. 

# * * * * * 

t 

I was Slill a comparatively young man (said 
Gibson) when I succeeded to a partnership in the 
old-established firm of Montgomery and McGilly- 
cuddy who had, and Still have, a large commercial 
and general practice in the City, and occupy offices 
in Basinghall Street. I was a bachelor—as I Still 
am—and I shared a fiat in the neighbourhood of 
Victoria Street with my brother Cecil. 

My life was very much one of routine. Regular 
hours at the office were followed by quiet evenings 
at the fiat, and on Saturday afternoons and Sundays 
my brother and I—he was an architect, by the way 
—used to go off together and play golf. I had 
good health and a good income, with prospers of 
doing better every year, and if ever I thought about 
the matter, it seemed to me that I had settled down 
into as comfortable and harmless a rut as anybody 

106 


GIBSON AND THE SPECIALIST 


could hope to find. As far as I could possibly tell, 
I should remain in it for the re£l of my life, and I 
certainly had no particular wish to do anything else. 
But this was not to be. 

About five o’clock one spring evening, after I 
had been carrying on this existence for four or five 
years, I had returned to the clubhouse at Sandy 
Heath after playing a couple of rounds with my 
brother, and was sitting on the bench in the locker- 
room, pleasantly exhausted after my exercise, and 
meditating, perhaps, on the advisability of giving 
my cleek a re£t. Cecil was splashing about in a 
wash-basin in the next room, and occasionally we 
would shout remarks to each other through the 
open door. 

I bent down to begin untying my shoelaces, 
when somehow or other my elbow knocked against 
the edge of my bag of clubs, which had been 
propped against the bench on which I was sitting; 
and in the hope of catching it before it fell, I shot 
my right arm quickly under my left leg and made 
a snatch at the £lrap of the bag. As I did so, I felt 
a sudden £tab of pain—ju£t here. 

(At this point Gibson laid his finger on the lowest 
button of his waistcoat.) 

The bag fell with a bang on the wooden floor, 
and I sat up again suddenly. 

107 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


“ By Jove! ” I said to myself. “ I wonder what 
I did.” 

And then, slowly and carefully, I repeated the 
movement. I leant forward, I passed my right 
hand gingerly under my left knee, and made a 
cautious grab at the air. Nothing happened. 

But I wasn’t quite satisfied. I did it once again, 
more rapidly this time, and as I closed my fist the 
little dart of pain returned. I sat up quickly. 

“ Cecil! ” I shouted. 

My brother appeared in the doorway. 

“ I say,” I said, “ I wish you’d come here a 
minute.” 

He came, wiping his hands on a towel and staring 
at me. 

“ What’s the matter ? ” he asked. “ Has some¬ 
body been at your locker ? ” 

“ No, no,” I said. “ But look here. When I 
lean forward like this, and put my arm ju£t here, 
and then close my fi£t like that, I—hullo, there it is 
again. Whew! ” 

“ There’s what again ? ” he asked, 6till Glaring at 
me. 

“ A mo£t extraordinary pain,” I said; “ in my 
inside.” 

Cecil flung his towel through the doorway of the 
inner room. 

108 


GIBSON AND THE SPECIALIST 

“ Juft a minute,” he said. “ What exaftly do 
you have to do ? ” 

“ This,” I explained. And I did it again. This 
time the pain was so sharp that I couldn’t repress a 
cry. 

“ What do you think it is ? ” I asked, nervously. 

Cecil put on his speftacles thoughtfully. 

“ Juft a second,” he said. “ Let me have a try.” 

He sat down beside me on the bench, and tried 
to imitate my attitude. 

“ Like this ? ” he asked. 

“ No,” I said. “ It’s the other arm. And you 
have to make a kind of grab with your fingers.” 

“ Juft show me,” said Cecil. 

“ Like this,” I said once more. And then I 
fairly yelped. It was exaftly like having a red-hot 
corkscrew run into one’s middle. 

Cecil got up again slowly. 

“ I didn’t feel anything,” he said. “ If I were 
you I wouldn’t get in that attitude again. I mean 
to say, it’s one you could very well do without.” 

“ Is that all you’ve got to say ? ” I asked coldly. 
“ Is it nothing to you that I am probably in for a 
very dangerous attack of appendicitis, if not some¬ 
thing worse ? Good Lord! I didn’t expeft very 
much sympathy from you, I admit; but to make a 
suggeftion like that—Why, how’d you like it if 

109 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


it hurt you like the devil to sit down, and all I said 
was that you’d better £land up ? Eh ? ” 

“ If you feel like that about it,” said Cecil, turn¬ 
ing down the cuffs of his shirt, “ I should think 
you’d better see a do6lor.” 

This suggestion seemed suddenly to shift the 
thing on to a fresh plane; to carry my position as an 
invalid a Stage—and an uncomfortable Stage— 
further. 

“ Perhaps it’s nothing, really,” I said. “ JuSt a 
slight Strain or something.” 

Cecil had turned his back and was rummaging in 
his locker. 

“ Oh, very likely,” I thought I heard him say. 

I decided to drop the subject. After all, though 
it was taStless of my brother to have pointed it out, 
there was no real necessity to assume that particular 
attitude again. I would wait a week, and if at the 
end of that time a further teSt produced the same 
symptoms, then the question of a doSlor might be 
reconsidered. Meanwhile, I would be careful to 
keep my right arm as far as possible from my left 
leg. 

But mark what happened. Three days later 
Cecil, while performing his morning toilet in the 
bathroom, tripped over the cord of his dressing- 
gown, put out his hand to save himself, crashed 

i io 


GIBSON AND THE SPECIALIST 


through the window, and sliced his forearm with a 
deep cut about nine inches long. He shouted out 
to me, and when I came in and found him looking 
slightly green and bleeding like a pig, I decided 
that, arteries being the kind of things that they 
were, it would be a good thing to get hold of assist¬ 
ance. I tore downstairs to the flat below ours, 
where, as I knew, a dodtor resided, and in less than 
half an hour Cecil’s arm was safely Stitched and 
bandaged and, I may add, in less than three weeks 
he was playing golf again. 

But I wasn’t. For what muSt my idiot of a 
brother go and do but—as soon as the laSt Stitch 
had been put into his arm—begin winking and 
making signs at me ? And then, as I continued to 
disregard these gesticulations—which, if the truth 
muSt be told, I believed to be conneSled with a 
desire on his part that I should offer the doStor his 
fee—what muSt he do next but remark aloud: “ I 
say, Henry, now that Dr. Brindleworth is here, why 
don’t you ask him to have a look at your inside ? ” 

I scowled at Cecil, but I was too late. The 
doSlor had already pricked up his ears. 

“ Why, what’s the trouble, Mr. Gibson ? ” he 
asked. 

“ Nothing,” I said sulkily. 

“ Don’t you believe him,” said Cecil, obviously 

111 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


under the impression that he was being witty. 
“ When he stands on his head, he gets a pain in his 
toe-nails. Don’t you, Henry ? ” 

I saw the dodtor looking at me curiously. In 
dealing with his patients’ alleged symptoms the 
ladt thing that a general practitioner can afford to 
have is a sense of humour, but Dr. Brindleworth, I 
should judge, can never have been tempted to 
indulge in such an extravagance. 

“ Is that really so ? ” he asked. 

“ No,” I replied. “ My brother’s pulling your 
leg, I’m afraid.” 

“ No, I’m not,” said Cecil, whose recent escape 
from death seemed to have gone slightly to his 
head. “ Judt you show him, old chap, what you 
showed me at the clubhouse on Sunday.” 

I suppose I might have refused even then, in 
which case the re£t of my life would have been a 
very different dtory. But Cecil’s mockery had put 
me on my mettle. After all, the pain had been a 
very real pain at the time. 

“ It’s like this, dodfcor,” I said. “ When I sit 
down and do this—like that, you see—I get a pain 
judt there.” 

I only gave him a rough outline of the position, 
for to tell the truth I saw no point in taking un¬ 
necessary risks. 


I 12 


GIBSON AND THE SPECIALIST 


Dr. Brindleworth looked at me seriously, and 
rubbed his chin with his hand. 

“ That’s very interesting,” he said. “ What 
kind of a pain is it ? ” 

I described it to the beSt of my ability. 

“ And juSt there, you said ? ” he went on, poking 
his finger into me. 

“ Yes,” I said. 

“ Perhaps you would let me make an examina¬ 
tion ? ” he suggested. 

Again I hesitated, but I saw that I had gone too 
far to go back. 

“ All right,” I said. 

We went along into my bedroom, and I lay flat 
on my back on the bed. Dr. Brindleworth tapped 
me and kneaded me and listened to me and breathed 
at me. I felt rather congested about the head, for 
he had insisted on removing my pillow; but beyond 
this I was able truthfully to inform him that I felt 
no pain at all. 

“ Now raise your legs,” he said. 

I did so. 

“ Now turn on your face,” he commanded. 

I obeyed. 

“ H’m,” said Dr. Brindleworth, when he had 
finished hitting me on the back. “ May I ask if 

ii 3 I 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


you have had anything to worry you lately ? Any 
business troubles, for instance ? ” 

“ No,” I said, with my mouth full of blanket. 
“ Nothing at all.” 

“ H’m,” he repeated, and he began walking up 
and down the bedroom, frowning to himself. 
Presently he said: “ As far as I can tell, there's 
nothing here that need seriously worry you. But 
I’d be very glad if you’d let me take you to see Sir 
Theodore Backgammon. If he agrees with me, 
and if you have no recurrence of the pain, then I 
think we may definitely say that with moderate care 
there is absolutely no cause for alarm.” 

“ Oh,” I said. “ But what do you think I’ve 
got ? ” 

He didn’t seem to hear this question. 

“ I’ll make an appointment for you one day 
next week,” he said, “ and I’ll come with you, of 
course, and let Sir Theodore know what I’ve 
found.” 

“ But what have you found ? ” I asked. 

Dr. Brindleworth shook his head and smiled 
faintly. 

“ I muftn’t anticipate Sir Theodore’s diagnosis,” 
he said, and with this our interview terminated. 

I found myself irrevocably pledged to accompany a 
Grange dodlor to a strange specialist’s, and all, as 

114 


GIBSON AND THE SPECIALIST 


far as I could see, to satisfy my brother Cecil’s 
peculiar and immoderate sense of humour. 

But if you have ever had any dealings with the 
medical profession, you will realize that by now it 
was no longer possible for me to treat the thing from 
a detached or sensible point of view. Dr. Brindle- 
worth’s mysterious examination, his obvious un¬ 
willingness to commit himself to a definite opinion, 
and, above all, his deadly, unblinking seriousness, 
had hypnotized me. I took to looking in the glass 
to see if I were unnaturally pale or flushed; I woke 
up in the night and prodded myself for imaginary 
pains; I tried, but failed, to find my own pulse. 

But one thing I did not do. Though often 
tempted, at the laSt minute my courage always 
failed me. I never put my right arm under my left 
leg and snatched at the air. The thing simply 
could not be faced. 

I played no golf that week-end, but Cecil’s arm 
gave me all the ostensible excuse that I wanted. 
Besides, it was raining hard all the time, and I sat in 
front of the fire, reading Hooper’s Medical Didlion- 
ary, in the edition of 1839. 

At laSt the day of my appointment with Sir 
Theodore came. I left the office early, picked up 
Dr. Brindleworth at his flat, and we drove together 
to Harley Street. It was a silent drive. Dr. 

ll 5 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


Brindleworth had put on his beSt clothes and stared 
straight in front of him, and I kept on glancing at 
myself in the mirror at the side of the hansom. 
To my disordered imagination there seemed some¬ 
thing unearthly about my pallor. 

FirSt of all Dr. Brindleworth and I waited 
together in the specialist’s dining-room, and then 
I waited alone, while the two aesculapians retired to 
the consulting-room and discussed my case—or 
possibly my income. Presently a butler was sent 
to fetch me in. 

By this time my nervous terror had reached such 
a pitch that I could scarcely control my limbs. I am 
not positive, but I believe that I entered the con¬ 
sulting-room on the butler’s arm. Sir Theodore 
Backgammon was sitting at an enormous writing- 
desk, almoSt entirely covered with examples of the 
silversmith’s art. He had a very large face, a high 
forehead, and wore a white pique slip in the 
opening of his waiStcoat. As I came tottering in 
he rose and grasped my hand. 

“ Take a seat, Mr. Gibson,” he said, and he 
switched on a small reading lamp, so that the light 
went Straight into my eyes. 

“ Now ju£t tell me, in your own words,” he went 
on, “ exaSlly how you firSt became aware of these 
symptoms. Don’t overlook any detail, juSt because 

116 


GIBSON AND THE SPECIALIST 


you think it seems unimportant. I want to have 
everything.” 

He smiled ferociously, and I began. I told him 
how on Sunday week I had been playing golf with 
my brother. I described the way that we had 
played and the time that we had taken. I explained 
how I was sitting down, after the second round, 
juft preparing to change my shoes. And thus at 
laft I led up to the famous attitude and the sudden 
pain. 

All the time that I was speaking, Sir Theodore 
nodded his head and Slabbed at his blotting-pad 
with a silver pencil-case. And when I had quite 
finished he said: “ Juft take off your shirt.” 

“ I beg your pardon ? ” I asked. 

“ Sir Theodore wishes to make a further exam¬ 
ination,” explained Dr. Brindleworth, darting 
forward. 

“ Oh,” I said. “ All right.” And I disrobed. 

“ Juft lie down on that sofa, Mr. Gibson,” said 
Sir Theodore; and when he had got me there, with 
my shirt off, he went into the corner of the room 
and began washing his hands. A faint smell of 
scented soap drifted across to me. 

“ Have you any idea what is the matter with 
me ? ” I enquired. 

Dr. Brindleworth looked at me reprovingly. 

1 17 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


Sir Theodore made no answer. Presently he 
finished drying his hands, and then at la£t he came 
over to the sofa. He slipped his arm behind me, 
seemed to release some kind of catch, and the part 
of the sofa which had been supporting my head 
suddenly gave way. 

“ Ah,” he said, “ that’s better.” 

And then he set to work. Fir£t he pinched, 
prodded, and poked the whole of one side, and then 
he stepped round the foot of the sofa and began on 
the other. Once I tried to ask him a question, 
but he wouldn’t hear of this. 

“ Quiet, please,” he said, threateningly. 

Unlike Dr. Brindleworth, he never asked me 
whether I felt any pain. But as a matter of fadt he 
gave me agony, for he had the sharpest finger-nails 
of any man I’ve ever met, and I bore the marks of 
his examination for many days. 

Presently he said: “ Get up. Place your feet 
together. Shut your eyes. Extend the right arm 
so. Now touch your nose. Now with the left 
arm. Now on one leg. Now on the other. Now 
again. Now put on your shirt.” 

“ May I open my eyes ? ” I asked. 

But he didn’t answer. So I risked it. I found 
that he had placed an armchair immediately facing 
his consulting-room window. 

118 


GIBSON AND THE SPECIALIST 


“ Sit down there,” he said. 

I did so. 

“ Keep your eyes fixed on that chimney-pot,” he 
went on, “ and now watch what I do.” 

He began moving things about, ju£l where I 
couldn’t see them. It was like the bit at the 
dentist’s where he ties you down with a gag, and 
then starts fiddling with his instruments at the 
back of your head, 

“ What’s this ? ” asked Sir Theodore, pointing 
to something. 

I knew what it was quite well, though I should 
have thought that in my position only a bird could 
have seen it; but for the life of me I couldn’t recall 
its right name. Afterwards, when it was too late, I 
remembered that it was a vinaigrette. 

“ It’s—it’s ...” I began. 

“ Never mind,” said Sir Theodore, cutting me 
short. “ Now tell me what this is.” 

Again, although my eyes were glued on the 
chimney-pot outside, I saw what he was holding 
quite clearly. It was one of those little silver things, 
like paper-knives, that doctors flatten your tongue 
with when they want to look far down your throat. 
I knew it had some special name. But to save my 
soul I couldn’t remember whether it was spatula 
or scapula . So, as I didn’t want him to laugh at me 

1 19 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


if I said the wrong thing, I answered: “ I can’t 
remember.” 

“ H’m,” said Sir Theodore. “ That will do, 

now. Juft turn your chair round. That’s right. 

Now sit down again. Now cross your legs. Now 
»> 

And at this moment he hit me a violent blow on 
the right knee-cap. 

“ Hi! ” I shouted, jumping up. “ Don’t do 
that! ” 

Sir Theodore turned triumphantly to Dr. 
Brindleworth, and Dr. Brindleworth looked admir¬ 
ingly at Sir Theodore. It was clear that only a 
three-guinea specialift could have delivered that 
blow with such ftartling accuracy. 

Sir Theodore then went back to his writing- 
table. 

“ You can put your coat on again, Mr. Gibson,” 
he said. 

I put it on. 

“ Tell me, now,” he continued. “ Have you 
been overworking at all, lately ? ” 

“ No,” I said, truthfully. 

“ What is your profession ? ” he asked. 

“ I am a solicitor,” I said. 

“ No money troubles ? ” he went on. 

“No,” I said. “None.” 


120 



GIBSON AND THE SPECIALIST 


He made a note of this on a piece of paper. 

“ Well, Mr. Gibson,” he continued, when he 
had done this, “ I don’t wish to say anything to 
alarm you. But I am very glad that you came to 
me when you did. Very glad indeed.” 

I bowed. 

“ Not at all,” I said. “ I-” 

“ How long would it take you to get your affairs 
in order ? ” he interrupted me. £ 

“ They are in order,” I protected. “I’m afraid 
I don’t quite follow you.” 

“ Good,” said Sir Theodore. “ Now I will give 
you a letter of introduction to a colleague of mine 
in Cape Town. I want you to drop everything here, 
absolutely, and catch the next mail-boat from 
Southampton. If you will place yourself entirely 
in my friend’s hands when you reach the Cape, I 
Ctill have every hope that it may not be too late. 
Have you got anyone who could travel with you ? ” 

“No,” I said. “But -” 

Sir Theodore stopped me with a frown. 

“ I will find a male nurse to accompany you, 
then,” he said. “ You had better be prepared to 
be away for at lead eighteen months. This is a 
shock to you, no doubt, Mr. Gibson, but I assure 
you that you can count yourself lucky that things 
have gone no further than they have. In four or 

I 2 I 




ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


five years from now, I have no hesitation in saying 
that you will be a different man. That is, if you 
follow my advice in every way.” 

“ But,” I exclaimed, “ I can’t possibly leave my 
business for as long as that.” 

“ No ? ” said Sir Theodore. 44 Then I think 
you had better dispose of your interest in it. I 
suppose there will be no difficulty about that.” 

“ But I don’t want-” I began again, and 

again I was silenced with a frown. 

44 Understand me clearly,” said Sir Theodore. 
“ Unless you follow my advice to the very letter, 
I muSt retire from your case at once. With my 
Standing and reputation I couldn’t possibly take it 
on any other terms.” 

He got up as he spoke, and began edging me to¬ 
wards the door. I had been holding his cheque in 
my hand ever since I had resumed my coat, and as 
he ushered me out, he extradted it from my limp 
fingers. The whole world seemed to be going 
round. The butler helped me into my overcoat 
and pushed me down the Steps into the Street. I 
can’t remember seeing Dr. Brindleworth again, so 
I suppose that he had Stayed behind. In a horrible 
kind of dream I crawled into a cab and went Straight 
back to my flat. 

The next day I arranged for my share in Messrs. 

122 



GIBSON AND THE SPECIALIST 


Montgomery and McGillycuddy’s business to be 
sold, and on the following Saturday my brother 
came down to Southampton and saw me off. Tar- 
gett, the male nurse, travelled in the next compart¬ 
ment. 

Cecil had lunch with me on board before the 
Kenilworth Cattle sailed. Oddly enough we found 
ourselves next to some people that he knew—a 
mother and daughter on their way out to Clay for 
two or three weeks at Madeira. I was introduced 
to them, but I was too much depressed to say more 
than a few words, and as soon as Cecil had left I 
went to my berth and lay down. Shortly after¬ 
wards I felt the engines moving and I realized with 
an aching heart that I had left my native country, 
possibly for ever. 

We had a rough passage through the Bay, and 
it was another forty-eight hours before I came on 
deck. Almost the firCl person I saw was Miss 
We&erham, Cecil’s friend. I raised my cap. 

“ Feeling better ? ” she asked, sympathetically. 

I had to admit that I was. 

“ Mother's Clill in bed,” she said. “ Shall we go 
for a walk ? ” 

For a moment I wondered whether I ought to 
ask Targett’s permission, but she was a very 
attractive girl. I decided to risk it. 

123 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


“ I shall be delighted,” I said. 

And thus began our fir£t acquaintanceship, 
which ladled exaCtly two days. I knew that I was 
in love with her in less than ten minutes, and it was 
torture to realize, as I did, that whereas a fortnight 
ago I should have been free to offer her my hand 
the firCt moment that I dared, now, as a condemned 
man, I mud be pledged to perpetual silence. 
Nevertheless, until the ship should arrive at Fun¬ 
chal I made up my mind to enjoy our friend¬ 
ship while it lasted. Poor girl, I only hoped 
that she, too, would not also become too fond 
of me. 

All that day we paced the deck together, played 
quoits and shuffleboard with each other, and in the 
evening we sat up until the lights were extinguished. 
She told me the name of her favourite authoress, 
and I told her how to register a limited company at 
Somerset House. It was, I thought, a communion 
of souls. 

The next day was ju£t the same. Mrs. Welter- 
ham was Ctill in bed. Targett had raised no ob¬ 
jection to my behaviour. And I—well, I almost 
began to forget the hideous disease which had 
driven me from England. In the afternoon the 
ship’s sports were held, and Miss WeCterham and 
I competed as partners in the arithmetic race, the 

124 


GIBSON AND THE SPECIALIST 


egg-and-spoon race, the cracknel race, and the 
deck-croquet mixed doubles. The thought of our 
parting at Madeira became unbearable. And yet 
how could I ask any woman to share the life which 
I saw stretching before me ? No, no. I muSt and 
I would carry my burden alone. 

But late that night, as we sat together on a box 
full of lifebelts, listening to the throb of the pro¬ 
peller and the sound of the water rushing from the 
ship’s prow, she suddenly asked me: “ Why can’t 
you wait at Madeira and catch the next boat on ? 
Would it really interfere with your plans ? ” 

“ I cannot do it,” I replied. 

“ But I’m sure the purser could arrange it,” she 
said. “ Now, do.” 

“ Miss WeSterham,” I answered. “ Enid—if I 
may call you that—I will tell you the truth. I 
have been sent out to South Africa by Sir Theodore 
Backgammon, in the care of a male nurse. His 
name is Targett; he is travelling second-class. 
Much as I would wish to £lay at Madeira for as 
long as you remain there yourself, I dare not do it. 
My life may seem of little value to you. I dare say 
it does. But has any man the right to throw away 
his only chance of living, when so much that is good 
£till remains to be done in this world ? I ask you, 
has he ? ” 


I2 5 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


“ Gracious! ” said Miss WeSterham. “ Why, 
surely you can’t be as bad as all that! ” 

“ I am,” I said sadly. 

“ But what is wrong with you ? ” she asked. 
“ How could a man as ill as you say you are beat 
the ship’s record for the high jump ? You are 
making fun of me.” 

“ I wish that I were,” I said. 

“ But what is it ? ” she repeated. Is it your 
lungs ? ” 

“ I don’t think so,” I said. 

“ But surely you mu£t know,” she insisted. 
“ Unless, that is—I mean to say ...” And she 
blushed. 

“ No, no,” I said hastily. “ Whatever it is, it is 
nothing that I would hide from you. The answer to 
your question is in my State-room, in a sealed letter 
addressed to Dr. Underwood of Cape Town. He is 
to take over my case when I arrive.” 

“ But do you mean to tell me that you have let 
them send you off, half round the world, without 
ever asking what was wrong with you ? ” she 
asked, gasping. 

“ You don’t understand,” I said. “ There are 
some cases in which it is kinder for the patient not 
to be told. All I know is that when I was changing 
my shoes after a game of golf a few weeks ago, I 

126 


GIBSON AND THE SPECIALIST 


leant forward and put my right arm under my left 
leg, and immediately I felt the mo£l agonizing 
pain.” 

“You did what ? ” said Miss WeCterham. 

“ I put my right leg—no, I mean my left hand 
was—no, look here,” I said, breaking off. “ IT 1 
show you.” 

I sat on the edge of a deck chair, and for the fir£t 
time since the day that I had had that warning 
twinge, I reconstructed the attitude. 

“ Well ? ” asked Miss WeSterham. For some 
reason she had her handkerchief pressed againSt 
her mouth. 

“ It’s a moSt remarkable thing,” I said, looking 
up at her from where I was crouching. “ It’s a 
moSt extraordinary and inexplicable affair, but— 
good heavens, it’s gone! ” 

“ What’s gone ? ” she asked, coughing a little, 
as it seemed. 

“ The pain ! ” I cried. “ A miracle has hap¬ 
pened ! Miss WeSterham—Enid, if I may call you 
that—I am cured! I am free! At laSt I can speak 
to you. At laSt the hideous cloud has lifted. Enid 
—deareSt—this afternoon we tied for the second 
place in the egg-and-spoon race. Will you not 
let me carry the egg of your beauty in the spoon of 
my love for the reSl of our two lives ? ” 

127 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


Miss WeSlerham turned her back quickly. I 
could see her shoulders shaking with emotion. 

“ There, there,” I said. “ I know I was impul¬ 
sive. I know I have startled you, but-” I put 

out my hand and touched her gently. 

“ No, no,” she said, shuddering. “ Leave me. 
Leave me at once.” And to my horror, she burSt 
into a peal of hysterical laughter. 

“ Enid! ” I cried. “ Speak to me! Answer 
me! ” 

“ I can’t,” she gasped out. “ You’re—you’re 
so frightfully funny! ” 

And with these terrible words she slipped paSt 
me and fled down the neareSl companion. 

In that moment (said Gibson impressively) I 
knew that my love for her was dead. Since she 
subsequently married my brother, this was prob¬ 
ably juSt as well. But for the time being I was like 
a man distraught. To have escaped like this from 
the very jaws of death, to have laid one’s hand and 
fortune at the feet of a chit of a girl, and then to be 
told that one was funny. Nay, that one was fright¬ 
fully funny. It was too much. 

How I reached my cabin again I do not know. 
Targett was waiting up for me, but I dismissed him 
at once. Then I took Sir Theodore’s letter from 
my dispatch-case, broke the seal, and opened it. 

128 



GIBSON AND THE SPECIALIST 


The next moment I had suffered another over¬ 
whelming shock. 

“ Dear Underwood,” Sir Theodore had 
written, 

“ I am sending you herewith one rich 
solicitor. I don’t want to see him again for 
eighteen months. Meanwhile, I am counting 
on fifty per cent, of whatever you can get from 
him. If there’s anything the matter with him 
except too much money, I’ll eat my stetho¬ 
scope. 

Yours ever, 

Theodore Backgammon.” 

For a minute and a half I Stared at this unspeak¬ 
able missive. Then, with an oath, I ran to the 
purser’s room. He was in bed—on the top of a 
cheSt of drawers, as is the habit of sailors—but he 
received me with the utmoSt courtesy. 

“ When’s the next boat back to Southampton ? ” 
I asked. 

“ To-morrow afternoon, from Funchal,” he said. 

“ Can you book me a berth on it ? ” 

“ Yes,” he said. “ Unless it’s full. Will you 
want accommodation for your man ? ” 

“ No,” I answered. “ My man is going on. 
He’s not been at all well, and I think the voyage 

129 K 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


will do him good. Here are fifty pounds to cover 
his expenses. May I ask you to be good enough to 
hand him the balance when he reaches Cape Town 
and to see that he delivers this letter to Dr. Under¬ 
wood in person ? ” 

“ Certainly,” said the purser. 

I took an envelope from his desk, put Sir Theo¬ 
dore’s letter in it, fastened it up, and handed it over. 

“ Thank you,” I said. “ Good night.” 

The next morning I packed a handbag and 
slipped over the side while Targett was having his 
breakfast. In a few more hours I was safely on 
board the Saxon , and by the Monday morning I was 
back in London. I took a cab and drove straight 
to Sir Theodore’s house in Harley Street. The 
same butler opened the door. 

“ I wish to see Sir Theodore Backgammon at 

once,” I said. 

✓ 

To my surprise, the butler shook his head. 

“ Haven’t you heard, sir ? ” he asked. 

“ No,” I said. “ What is it ? ” 

“ Sir Theodore has had a serious breakdown, 
sir,” said the butler. “ He was removed la£t 

Tuesday to E-.” He gave the name of a well- 

known private home for mental cases. 

“ But,” I shouted, “ do you realize that he made 
me sell my practice, and ftart off half round the 

130 



GIBSON AND THE SPECIALIST 


world only ten days ago ? It’s monstrous! It’s 
intolerable! Why didn’t you warn me ? How 
dared you admit me to the house of a certified 
lunatic ? If there’s a law in England I’ll get 
damages from him.” 

But the butler shook his head again. 

“ I’m afraid it’s not my fault, sir,” he said. 
“ But if you wish to consult a very respe&able firm 
of lawyers, I can tell you where several of his be£t 
patients have gone.” 

“ Oh, you can, can you ? ” I snorted. “Where’s 
that ? ” 

“ Montgomery and McGillycuddy, sir,” said 
the butler. “ In Basinghall Street.” 

^ ^ Jt. 

7J» vjs Vp 

Gibson flopped, and looked at me out of the 
corners of his eyes. 

“ Do you see now,” he asked, “ why I never 
went back to my office again ? ” 

“ Not quite,” I said. 

“ How could I ? ” he appealed to me. “ My 
partners knew why I was selling my interest. I 
should have been the laughing-£tock of every clerk 
in the place for the re£t of my life. I couldn’t face 
it. I invented the whole of my capital in Standard 
Oil, and I have lived at the Caviare ever since.” 

I 3 I 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


“ And you never felt that pain again ? ” I 
enquired. 

“ Ah,” said Gibson, “ I thought you might ask 
that. It brings up the mo£t unpleasant part of the 
whole £tory. About a fortnight after I got back to 
my flat, my brother Cecil came into my room with 
an angry look on his face. 

“ ‘ I wish/ he said, ‘ the next time you borrow 
my tie to keep your breeches up, you’d take care 
not to go off with my be£t gold safety-pin.’ 

“ ‘ What do you mean ? ’ I asked. 

“ 4 Look here,’ he said. ‘ Here have I been 
hunting high and low for the thing for over a 
month, and all the time it was £tuck in the end of 
that tie I lent you, and hanging there in your 
locker at Sandy Heath. I value that pin. It was 
given me by that Miss We£terham that you met 
on the boat. What could I have said, if she’d 
asked me where it was ? ’ 

My dear Cecil,’ I replied, * I don’t know and 
I don’t care. But, leaving Miss We£lerham out of 
it for the moment, I should like to know why the 
blazes you dignify that infernal pin with the un¬ 
merited description of “ Safety.” It’s the mo£t 
dangerous pin I ever met in my life ! ’ 

“ And the next day,” added Gibson, rising to 
his feet, “ I moved out of the flat. After all, it’s 

132 


GIBSON AND THE SPECIALIST 


almost always a mistake for brothers to live to- 
0 

gether.” 

He threw me a final, brief smile, and disappeared 
through the swing-doors into the hall. 


133 


VI 


THE MYSTERY OF THE MANAGING 

DIRECTOR 

I HAVE an idea that about this time Gibson mu£t 
have told me a number of Glories the details of 
which have, for one reason or another, slipped from 
my memory. It is difficult otherwise to explain 
how I am left with the vague impression of an 
account of a diamond necklace, stolen from a count¬ 
ess at the Royal Academy soiree , and subsequently 
brought to light in a ham sandwich at the British 
Museum refreshment room; of the inexplicable 
disappearance of a landowner who had driven 
certain gipsies from a field where their caravans 
had pitched for centuries, and of the strange dis¬ 
covery, many years later, of his mummified head 
in a cocoanut-shy at Mitcham Fair; of the 
poisoned pyjamas used to dope the favourite in the 
Open Championship; and of the remarkable 
narrative of a Kensington policeman who witnessed 
the committee of a well-known political club offer¬ 
ing up a human sacrifice on the £teps of the Albert 
Memorial. 


134 


MYSTERY OF MANAGING DIRECTOR 


I feel that it muSt have been from Gibson that I 
learnt of such impossible affairs, for they are cer¬ 
tainly not the kind of thing that I should ever be 
likely to invent myself. But though these frag¬ 
mentary outlines have remained stored away in the 
recesses of my mind, the adtual particulars in each 
case seem somehow to have become dislodged. 
And to reconstruct the originals from such scant 
material would, I feel, be hardly fair either to the 
memory of Gibson or to the readers of these Tales. 

And so, regretfully yet sternly, I pass at once to 
the next occasion where I feel that I can safely 
supply the details that are needed, and reproduce in 
this chapter the account which Gibson gave me of 
the mysterious circumstances surrounding the 
death of Mr. Abraham Dix. As before, I shall 
quote the aCtual words of the narrator. 

2k. 

V 7 * 7Jv ST* »T* «!• 

London (said Gibson) has changed so much and 
so faSt during the laSt fifteen or twenty years, the 
housebreaker and the building contractor have 
wrought their work so well, that photographic 
records of many familiar Streets taken at the begin¬ 
ning of this period now seem to us like the pictures 
of some foreign town. You have only to look at the 
old cover of the Strand Magazine to see what I mean. 
Yet the change has been so continuous, the speCtacle 

x 35 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


of gigantic cranes and of the Steel skeletons of new 
buildings has become so constant a feature of the 
Londoner’s horizon, that it is only when some 
sudden thought causes him to peer into his memory 
that the extent of this metamorphosis is brought 
home to him. The St. James’s Hall, Walsingham 
House, Hengler’s Circus, Newgate Prison, the 
Aquarium, the Big Wheel, Howell and James, 
where are they now ? Oil , as has been well asked, 
sont les neiges d'antan ? 

It is more than likely, therefore, that unless you 
have some special reason to remember it, you have 
already forgotten even so recent and so hideous an 
edifice as Dix’s Omniferous Stores, which ceased to 
exiSt as a separate entity in the retail microcosm 
barely twelve years ago. 

It was in Knightsbridge that Mr. Abraham Dix, 
the founder of this business, entered, as a draper’s 
errand-boy, on his commercial career. And it was 
in Knightsbridge that he gradually, during the 
sixty-five years of his life, turned his dreams into 
bricks and mortar, into plate-glass windows and 
mahogany counters, into Manchester goods and 
Paris models, into groceries, drugs, carpets, books, 
footwear, hardware, and sundries—in short, into 
the kind of establishment which could fully juStify 
his slogan, “ From Layette to Lay-Out.” And 

136 


MYSTERY OF MANAGING DIRECTOR 


finally it was in Knightsbridge again that, in his 
private office on the fourth floor of the Omniferous 
Stores, he was found dead in the peculiar circum¬ 
stances which I shall now relate. 


The month was December, and the ChriStmas 
Bazaar in the sub-basement was already swarming 
with customers, while in every department through¬ 
out the big building money was pouring into the 
cashiers’ boxes. Mr. Dix had arrived as usual at 
half-paSt nine in the morning, had dictated his 
letters and instructions to his secretary and had, 
again as usual, dismissed her while he went 
through the schedule of returns for the previous 
day’s trading. In the ordinary course of events he 
would not emerge again until shortly after noon, 
when it was his habit to make a general tour, incog¬ 
nito so far as the customers were concerned, of the 
whole establishment, winding up in the reStaurant 
on the fifth floor, where he would examine and pass 
the menu and the musical director’s programme for 
the selections to be played during lunch. 

But at twenty-five minutes paSt eleven on this 
particular day, Mr. Emms, the head of the silk 
department, observed a lady of rather ample figure 
enter his domain with what he at firSt sight took 

137 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


to be a large red handkerchief protruding from one 
end of her muff. 

He was on the point of stepping forward to warn 
her of the risk which she was incurring of losing her 
property, when to his surprise he realized that the 
handkerchief was, in fadt, no handkerchief, but the 
head of a fully-developed and recently-deceased 
turkey. With a whispered word to his second-in- 
command he fell in behind her and followed her at a 
distance of some yards through into the silver 
department. Here the lady seemed suddenly to 
become aware of the unusual appearance of her 
muff and, with a quick glance round, she fluffed 
the head back into its interior. And then, satisfied 
apparently that she had not been seen, she laid a 
careless hand on the nearest counter, swept a large 
cigar-case off the edge, and caught it neatly in her 
unfolded umbrella. 

In Mr. Emms’s opinion the time had come for 
adtion. He stepped forward and touched the lady 
on the arm. 

“ Pardon me, madam,” he said, “ but may I 
trouble you to come with me to the Managing 
Diredlor’s office ? ” 

The lady Glared at him in surprise. 

“ Certainly not,” she said. “ What is the mean¬ 
ing of this impertinence ? ” 

138 


MYSTERY OF MANAGING DIRECTOR 

“ I have no wish,” answered Mr. Emms, “ to 
cause any unnecessary unpleasantness, but I muSl 
ask you to do as I say.” 

The lady’s assurance seemed suddenly to leave 
her. 

“ I am a clergyman’s wife,” she said. “ If my 
husband were to hear of this, he would never lift up 
his head again. Let me pay you for what I have 
taken, and I will prav for you every night as long 
as I live.” 

“ That is impossible, madam,” said Mr. Emms 
sternly. “You have no right to make such a 
suggestion.” 

The lady’s eyes filled with tears. 

“ But you have such a kind face,” she said 
pathetically. “ Surely you cannot wish me to 
suffer such terrible disgrace. See here,’’ she added, 
fumbling in the front of her dress; “ here is a gold 
watch which I have juSt bought for my husband. 
Take it. It is yours, if only you will let me pay and 

g°-” 

But Mr. Emms’s horrified eyes had already 
detebted the price label on the back of the proffered 
watch. 

“ Silence,” he said. “ You will come with me at 
once to Mr. Dix’s office. I am not to be bribed 
with Slolen goods.” 


139 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


The lady hung her head, and allowed herself 
to be led to the nearest lift. In a couple of 
minutes they had reached the private secretary’s 
room. 

“ Please tell Mr. Dix,” said Mr. Emms, “ that 
I have observed this lady in the adt of purloining 
the firm’s property. And,” he added ferociously, 
“ you had better send down for a policeman.” 

“ Certainly, Mr. Emms,” said the secretary, and 
lifting the receiver of the telephone, she gave the 
necessary order. Then she moved to the door of 
Mr. Dix’s room. The clergyman’s wife sank into 
a chair, moaning, and wiping her eyes with three 
and a half yards of Honiton lace which she took 
from the pocket of her sealskin jacket. 

“ Let me beseech you,” she wept, “ to overlook 
this—this lapse. I cannot think what made me do 
it. But I have been overworking so terribly at the 
Girls’ Friendly Society. Surely Mr. Dix will 
understand if I tell him that ? ” 

Mr. Emms was juSt drawing himself up to 
administer a chilling reproof in the character of 
Blind JuStice; he had even cleared his throat for 
the opening phrase; when a piercing shriek rang 
suddenly out from the inner room. He paused 
with his Adam’s apple half raised. 

The shriek was repeated. 

140 


MYSTERY OF MANAGING DIRECTOR 


“ My God! ” said Mr. Emms. “ What was 
that ? ” 

He darted one look at his fair prisoner, but she 
seemed in a State of complete collapse. The next 
moment he had flung himself at the inner door, and 
burSt it open. 

The sight which met his eyes was fully described 
at the inquest which, as an acquaintance of the 
Town Clerk, I had the privilege of attending in 
company with a friend of mine. I will now sum¬ 
marize it shortly. 

Immediately inside the doorway, Miss Billing- 
field, the lady secretary, was lying senseless on the 
ground, and by the corner of his big desk, his arms 
outstretched over the carpet and his toupee gripped 
closely in one of his hands, was the body of Mr. 
Abraham Dix. 

“ Did you,” asked the coroner, when this point 
had been reached, “ notice anything else about the 
deceased ? ” 

“ Yes, sir,” said Mr. Emms. 

“ Please describe it to us.” 

“ Well, sir,” said Mr. Emms, “ I went over 
at once to see if there was anything as I 
could do, and I noticed immediately that the ends 
of Mr. Dix’s trousers were Stuffed inside his 
socks.” 

14 1 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


The coroner looked up sharply. 

“ Was that in accordance with the ordinary 
custom of the deceased ? ” he asked. 

“ No, sir,” said Mr. Emms. 

“ And did you remark anything else ? ” con¬ 
tinued the coroner. 

“ I also saw,” replied Mr. Emms, “ that Mr. 
Dix had what we call a traveller’s sample of ribbon 
—a short length taken from a bundle which was 
lying on his desk—pinned diagonally, as one might 
say, across his waistcoat.” 

This, as you can imagine, was the point at which 
the reporters sharpened their pencils and began to 
scent a mystery. But there was more to follow.. 
When Mr. Emms had concluded his evidence, and 
had explained how it was that he was in the 
Managing Dire&or’s office; how, on turning from 
his fir£t examination of the deceased, he had found 
the policeman for whom Miss Billingfield had 
telephoned ju^t entering the room; and how the 
discovery was then made that the alleged shop¬ 
lifter had taken advantage of the confusion to make 
her escape; and when the policeman had confirmed 
this part of the £lory, then Miss Billingfield herself 
was called. 

“ When,” asked the coroner, “ did you la£t see 
your employer alive ? ” 


142 


MYSTERY OF MANAGING DIRECTOR 


“ About half-pa£l ten,” said Miss Billingfield, 
“ when I finished taking his dilation.” 

“ And between half-pa£b ten and the time that 
you next entered the inner room,” enquired the 
coroner, “ what were you doing ? ” 

“ I was typing in my own room.” 

“ The whole time ? ” 

44 The whole time.” 

“ Did anyone else enter the deceased’s office 
during this period ? ” 

Miss Billingfield seemed to hesitate. 

“ I cannot say,” she replied at la£t. 44 I heard 
Mr. Dix’s voice speaking once, but he had a private 
telephone on his desk, and he may have been using 
that. He had had the bell muffled, so that even 
if it had rung, I shouldn’t have heard it. Mr. Dix 
had a very loud voice, and he has often carried on 
conversations in the next room in which, from where 
I was, I could not hear the other party speaking.” 

44 And on this particular morning,” continued 
the coroner, “ what was it that you heard the 
deceased say ? ” 

Again Miss Billingfield hesitated, and then she 
answered: 44 Fir£t of all I heard him say, ‘ What ? ’ 
He said it very loudly, and as if he was very much 
surprised. Then he said, 4 But who are you ? ’ or 
something like that. Then I heard him say, 4 Are 

*43 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


you sure there’s no mistake ? I only sent you ten 
thousand.’ And then, ‘ All right. Mum’s the 
word. I quite understand.’ And after that he 
dropped his voice, and I couldn’t catch anything 
more. I thought at the time that he might be 
speaking to himself.” 

At this moment I looked round at Tom Headley, 
the man who had come with me to the inqueSt— 
he was a Member of Parliament, by the way, and I 
had known him for years—and to my astonish¬ 
ment I saw him half rise from his seat, with his jaw 
dropping and his eyes bursting right out of his 
head. 

“ What on earth’s the matter ? ” I whispered. 

“ Nothing,” he said haStily. “Nothing.” And 
he sank back in his place. 

I thought perhaps he was feeling faint. 

“ Would you like to go out ? ” I asked. 

But the coroner tapped on his table with his pen. 

“ Silence! ” he shouted, glaring at us, and we 
both subsided at once. 

Then came the medical evidence. 

Dr. Woppingham, giving an address in Sloane 
Street, stated that he had been called by telephone 
to the Omniferous Stores on the morning in ques¬ 
tion. He had found the deceased lying' as de¬ 
scribed, and examination had revealed that life had 

144 


MYSTERY OF MANAGING DIRECTOR 


been extindl for over half an hour. He had 
attended Mr. Dix for many years, and though of 
course he was no longer a young man, there was, in 
his opinion, no reason why, with ordinary care, he 
should not have lived another fifteen or even twenty 
years. Any sudden shock might, however, have 
been very dangerous. 

“ Do you mean a physical shock ? ” asked the 
coroner. 

“ Physical or mental,” said the doStor. 

“ And in your opinion,” the coroner continued, 
“ what was the actual cause which brought about 
the deceased’s end ? ” 

“ Heart failure,” said the doStor, “ following 
such shock. I found at the base of the os occipitis a 
severe, suffused contusion; but I am unable to 
State whether this resulted from the manner in 
which the deceased fell, or whether it was produced 
by some blunt instrument before the fall took 
place.” 

“ In the latter event,” asked the coroner, “ could 
this injury, in your opinion, have been self- 
inflifted ? ” 

“ In my opinion,” said Dr. Woppingham, “ that 
would have been impossible.” 

“ And did you discover in the room any such 
instrument as you describe ? ” 

145 


L 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


“ No,” said the do£tor. And then he added: 
“ I didn’t look.” 

The coroner made a careful note of this answer, 
and then he went on. 

“ One more question, Dr. Woppingham. Have 
you any theory which will explain, from a medical 
standpoint, the unusual condition of the deceased’s 
clothing ? ” 

“ No,” said the do£tor again. 

“ Thank you,” said the coroner. “ I will not 
detain you any longer.” And Dr. Woppingham 
bowed and left the court. 

But the mySterious part of the affair wasn’t over 
yet. 

The next witness was Mr. Hilary Bennett, a 
director of the Omniferous Stores. He Stated that 
he had arrived on the scene a few minutes after the 
discovery had been made, to keep an appointment 
with Mr. Dix. Seeing that the doctor was in 
charge in the private office, and hearing from Mr. 
Emms of the shoplifter’s escape, he had firSt gone 
back to the doorway which communicated with the 
main Store; but the commissionaire, who had been 
on duty there since ten o’clock, was positive that 
no one had left Mr. Dix’s suite by that route during 
the whole of the previous hour. Then he had run 
down the private Stairway which led diredt to the 

146 


MYSTERY OF MANAGING DIRECTOR 


street, and had discovered that the door at the bot¬ 
tom of it was open. At the time, this had only 
struck him as explaining how the shoplifter had 
got away; but he had since been informed that it 
was Mr. Dix’s invariable custom to lock this door 
from the inside after he arrived each morning, with 
a key which he carried in his waistcoat pocket. 
Miss Billingfield could doubtless confirm this. 

“ In other words,” said the coroner, cutting him 
short, “ the door leading to the street muSt have 
been open ever since half-paSt nine ? ” 

“ Not necessarily open,” said Mr. Bennett care¬ 
fully. “ But it would have been possible for any¬ 
one to open it from the inside by turning the handle 
of the latch. If the door were shut, it could not be 
opened from outside without the key.” 

There was a rustle in the court-room as those 
present tried to see where this answer was leading 
them. 

“ And did you inform the constable of your dis¬ 
covery ? ” the coroner pursued. 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Bennett. “ And adting on my 
suggestion he searched Mr. Dix’s pockets for the 
key.” 

“ And he found it ? 

“ No,” said Mr. Bennett, impressively. “ The 
key was not there.” 


147 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 

There was another quickly subdued ru^Ue in the 
court. 

“ Now tell me, Mr. Bennett,” the coroner con¬ 
tinued, “ have you, with the close knowledge of the 
deceased’s business affairs which you mu£t possess, 
any information which will explain the statement 
made by a previous witness that she heard the 
deceased remark, ‘ But I only sent you ten thous¬ 
and ’ ? ” 

Mr. Bennett shook his head. 

“ No, sir,” he said. 

The coroner looked up, and smiled the smile 
which indicates prior knowledge of the answer 
which is to be made to a question. 

“Will you tell the jury,” he said, “ what you 
found on the deceased’s desk ? ” 

“ On Mr. Dix’s desk,” said Mr. Bennett, “ I 
found a sheet of his private notepaper, and written 
on it in his own handwriting were the words, ‘ Lord 
Knightsbridge.’ ” 

“ Nothing else ? ” 

“ Nothing else.” 

“ Ju£t let the jury see that exhibit,” said the 
coroner, turning to a police-officer; and the sheet 
of notepaper was handed round for the twelve 
jurors to inspect. When it came back to the 
coroner again, he turned once more to Mr. Bennett 

148 


MYSTERY OF MANAGING DIRECTOR 


and asked: “ Have you any knowledge of any 
dealings which the deceased had with any person 
known as Lord Knightsbridge ? ” 

“ No, sir,” said Mr. Bennett. 

“ Thank you,” said the coroner. “ Now juSt 
one more question. Has there come to your notice 
during the paSt months any indication of a feeling 
on the part of any of the deceased’s employees 
which might have led any of them to wish to do 
the deceased any kind of injury ? ” 

Before Mr. Bennett could answer, a man at 
the back of the court rose suddenly to his 
feet. 

“ As General Secretary to the Amalgamated 
Society of Retailers’ Assistants and Auxiliaries,” he 
shouted, “ I protect againSt that question being 
put.” 

“ Silence, sir! ” barked the coroner. “ What is 
your name ? ” 

The man bobbed up again. 

“ Holzapfel,” he answered. 

“ Kindly leave the court at once,” said the 
coroner. 

The interrupter folded his arms. 

“ I have made my proteSt,” he said with great 
dignity, and then, rather to my surprise, he actually 
did leave. Perhaps he miStruSted the look in the 

149 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


eye of the policeman who had begun edging to¬ 
wards him. 

“ Now, sir,” resumed the coroner, turning again 
to Mr. Bennett. “ Let me repeat my la£l ques¬ 
tion.” And he repeated it. 

“ Mud I answer that ? ” asked Mr. Bennett, 
looking nervously towards the spectators at the 
back of the room. 

“ It is a very important point,” said the coroner. 

“ Then, if you insist,” said Mr. Bennett, “ I 
muCt inform you that about a fortnight ago Mr. 
Dix ported a notice on the employees’ notice-board 
forbidding the further use inside the building of 
openwork stockings.” 

As the coroner glared angrily round the court, 
the murmur of indignation which had arisen died 
suddenly away. 

“ Thank you, Mr. Bennett,” he concluded. 
And Mr. Bennett withdrew. 

The coroner consulted a slip of paper. 

“ Call Mr. Purdy,” he said. 

A lean man, with an incredibly high collar, 
stepped forward and took the oath. 

“ Now then, Mr. Purdy,” said the coroner, 
“ you are, I believe, a cashier at the Brompton 
Road branch of the Great Southern and Metro¬ 
politan Bank ? ” 

150 


MYSTERY OF MANAGING DIRECTOR 

“ That is so,” agreed the witness. 

“ You knew the deceased by sight ? ” 

“ I did.” 

“ And are acquainted with the details of his 
account ? ” 

“ I am.” 

“ So that if the deceased had recently received or 
paid out any large sum of money—let us say, ten 
thousand pounds—you would have knowledge of 
this ? ” 

“ I would,” said Mr. Purdy. 

“ Can you tell us, then, whether, in fa ft, the 
deceased did in the course of the la£l few weeks 
pass any such large sum through his account ? ” 

“ On the seventh instant,” replied Mr. Purdy, 
in a sing-song voice, “ Mr. Dix called at the bank 
at 9.20 a.m. in the forenoon, and presented an 
open cheque, payable to self and endorsed on the 
reverse, for ten thousand pounds sterling. The 
whole sum was immediately paid over to him in 
bank-notes. The numbers of those notes were 


Here the coroner raised his hand. 

“ Thank you, Mr. Purdy,” he interrupted. 
“ The police have asked that the numbers of the 
notes should not for the present be disclosed.” 

Mr. Purdy bowed, and another thrill ran round 

151 



ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


the court. Surely, I felt, we mu£t be getting some¬ 
where at laft. 

But with the next witness the coroner Parted 
off on a £till further tack. 

“You are, I believe,” he said, addressing the 
surly-looking man who had ju£l been called and 
sworn, “ a Deputy-Divisional Traffic Superintend¬ 
ent in the employ of the London Telephone Ser¬ 
vice ? ” 

The surly-looking man nodded. 

“ Speak up, please,” said the coroner. 

“ That’s right,” said the witness. 

“ Have you a record of any calls originating from 
or being received by ‘ Western 9606 ’—the num¬ 
ber of the deceased’s private line—on the morning 
that the deceased met with his death ? ” 

“ No,” said the witness. 

“ Such records are, I suppose, kept ? ” enquired 
the coroner, with one eye on the reporters’ table. 

“ Not of incoming calls, they aren’t,” said the 
witness. 

“ But of outgoing calls ? ” 

“ That’s right.” 

“ So that if Mr. Dix had originated a call that 
morning your department would have a record of 
it ? ” 

“ No,” said the witness. 

152 


MYSTERY OF MANAGING DIRECTOR 


“ Why not ? ” asked the coroner sharply. 

“ Because the line was out of order and being 
te£led for repairs,” said the surly-looking man. 

“ Oh,” said the coroner, scowling at the back of 
the court. “ You may £tand down, sir.” 

The witness withdrew, and the coroner held a 
brief, whispered conversation with a man who 
looked as if he might once have been a police 
inspector. Then he rose to his feet again. 

“ Gentlemen,” he said, “ I had hoped to be able 
to conclude our enquiry in one sitting, but the 
evidence which has been given to-day makes this, 
I am afraid, impossible. It is clearly essential, 
before we are able to reach a proper decision, that 
two—at lea£t—of the points which have been re¬ 
ferred to should be cleared up. Fir£t of all, an effort 
mud be made to trace the ten thousand pounds in 
bank-notes which were known to be in thedeceased’s 
possession twenty-four hours before his death. 
And secondly, it is of the utmo£l importance that 
Lord Knightsbridge should attend, so that he may 
be asked if he can explain why it was that the 
deceased should have occupied his la£t moments in 
writing his lordship’s name on this sheet of note- 
paper. The inque£l will therefore be adjourned 
until-” 

But here the mo£l extraordinary interruption 

153 



ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


took place. Tom Headley, for whom, at his own 
request, I had secured admission to the court, and 
who might therefore, you would have thought, 
have taken care to do nothing that would bring 
discredit on his introducer, suddenly raised his 
voice and called out: “ But there isn’t any such 
title! How can you summon a man who doesn’t 
exidt ? ” 

In an instant we seemed the centre of a hundred 
pairs of curious or angry eyes. But already the 
coroner’s la£t words had caused people to begin 
rising and moving towards the doors. With one 
hand I dealt Tom Headley a violent blow in the 
wind, and with the other I pointed indignantly at 
an old man sitting ju^t in front of us. As I hurried 
my friend away, I had the satisfadlion of seeing a 
specially large policeman clambering over the seats 
towards the innocent vidtim of my ruse. 

But as soon as we were clear of the court-room I 
turned impatiently to Tom. 

“ What the dickens do you mean,” I asked, “ by 
shouting out like that ? And besides, anyway, how 
do you know there isn’t a Lord Knightsbridge ? 
Can’t you credit that coroner with any kind of 
sense at all ? ” 

“ I’m awfully sorry, old man,” said Tom, dtill 
rubbing his waistcoat. “ I apologize like anything. 

154 


MYSTERY OF MANAGING DIRECTOR 


But do you really suppose that I’ve spent two years 
in the Whips’ Office without knowing something 
about the peerage ? Of course there’s no Lord 
Knightsbridge. There never has been.” 

“ Well,” I protected, “ even so, what has it got 
to do with you ? ” 

“ Look here,” said Tom, disregarding this 
question, “ if I give you my solemn word not to 
utter a sound, will you try and get me into the 
inquest again next time ? I’ve got a very special 
reason. I can’t tell you what it is now; but if ever 
I can, I promise I will.” 

“ Does that mean that you’re the murderer ? ” 
I asked, smiling at his earnestness. 

He jumped as if he had been shot. 

“ No, no,” he said quickly. And then he added 
enigmatically, “ At leadt, if I am, I’ll tell you as 
soon as I’m sure.” 

And with this I had to be content. 

The newspapers the next day were full of the 
coroner’s mistake. But in the general excitement 
that the inqueSt had aroused I doubt if the public 
as a whole paid much attention to it. They were 
too busy discussing the numerous remarkable 
features of the affair itself. Some people thought 
that Mr. Dix had been murdered by the shoplifter 
earlier in the morning, others suspedled Miss 

155 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


Billingfield, others plumped for Mr. Holzapfel or 
one of his minions. Every hour a fresh rumour of 
the impending bankruptcy of the Omniferous 
Stores was Parted, but this was at length knocked 
on the head by an official pronouncement from the 
surviving directors. The Grange condition of the 
deceased’s trousers and waistcoat suggested to 
many ingenious minds that the crime was the work 
of some secret society, whose mercy Mr. Dix had 
sought in vain to purchase with the ten thousand 
pounds in bank-notes. I can hardly describe the 
fantastic theories which were showered on one 
wherever one went. Every morning the newspaper 
headlines said that important developments were 
expedled in the next twenty-four hours, and every 
evening they asked contemptuously what the police 
thought they were doing. 

On the day that the inquest was resumed, the 
streets round the coroner’s court were packed with 
a seething mob. But once again I had succeeded 
in obtaining two cards of admission from my friend 
the Town Clerk, and Tom Headley and I fought 
our way triumphantly into the room. There was a 
hushed silence when the coroner rose to address the 
jury. 

“ Gentlemen,” he said, “ since this enquiry was 
opened, there have been two developments to 

156 


MYSTERY OF MANAGING DIRECTOR 


which I think it necessary to draw your immediate 
attention. In the firSt place, a search by the police 
at the deceased’s residence has resulted in the dis¬ 
covery of the keys of his private entrance to the 
Stores. They were, in short, lying on the top of 
his dressing-table. It seems clear, therefore, that on 
this particular morning the deceased mud have 
reached his office through one of the main entrances, 
and that no one could subsequently have gained 
admission to his suite by means of the private 
stairway unless they possessed a duplicate key. 

“ In the second place, a statement has been 
made to me by Mr. McQuantock, the manager of 
the deceased’s bank, that the ten thousand pounds 
in bank-notes have been returned to him intaft, and 
in circumstances which he considers, and, I may 
add, that I myself consider, entirely satisfactory. 
There are very important reasons why these cir¬ 
cumstances should not be made public, and unless 
the jury insist, I should very much prefer that the 
incident should be considered as closed.” 

He paused for a moment, and though the jury 
looked as bewildered and inquisitive as the reSt of 
us, none of them had the courage to ask what he 
meant. So he went on again: “Having thus 
disposed of the question of both the opportunity 
and the motive by which the deceased might have 

157 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


met his end at the hands of a fellow creature, I feel 
justified in asking the jury to return a verdidt of 
‘ Death from heart failure, the result of an acci¬ 
dental fall,’ in accordance with the medical 
evidence.” 

There was a gasp of surprise from the crowded 
room. Inexperienced as mod of those present mudt 
have been in the ways of the law, common sense 
was enough to tell them that the coroner had rushed 
at his decision in total disregard of quite half the 
fadls of the case, not to mention their own very 
natural wish to be provided with the sensational 
disclosures which the Press had been promising 
them for a week. But the coroner had his jury well 
in hand. After a mere pretence of consultation, the 
foreman rose and returned the verdidf which had 
been put into his mouth, he and his colleagues 
were discharged, and the police began clearing the 
court. 

I turned to Tom Headley, and found him wiping 
his forehead with his handkerchief. 

“ Thank heaven,” he murmured, “ that a British 
jury £till does what it’s told. Come back to my flat, 
and I’ll tell you a secret.” 

In another ten minutes we were sitting over his 
fire, and this is the £tory that he confided to me: 

“ On the morning of the eighth—the day that 

158 


MYSTERY OF MANAGING DIRECTOR 


Dix died—a registered parcel was brought to me 
at the Whips’ Office. It contained ten thousand 
pounds in bank-notes and a letter from Mr. Dix. 
He said that he understood that a payment of this 
sum to the party funds would secure for him a 
knighthood, and he would be obliged for our formal 
receipt and an assurance that the thing would be 
put through at once. I may say that as far as I was 
concerned I was all for letting him have it. But 
the Chief said, No. He didn’t know the man, and 
he wouldn’t tru£t him not to give the show away. 
Ten thousand pounds would be useful enough, but 
with all the talk there had been of the purity of the 
fountain of honour, we couldn’t afford to run risks 
with a Stranger. He asked me to take the money 
back to Mr. Dix, and explain that he was labouring 
under a misapprehension. 

“ Very well, then. By the same poSt I had a line 
from Dick Porphyry—you know, the Under¬ 
secretary to the Duchy of Lancaster. He’d been 
promised a peerage some time ago, but we’d put it 
off because his seat wasn’t any too safe. Now he 
said that he muSt have it at once, because his 
doSlor had ordered him abroad for a year, and he 
would have to resign in any case. I spoke to the 
Chief, and he said ‘ Yes, that’s all right. Ring him 
up and tell him we’ll put it through at once.’ 

l 59 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


“ I asked my secretary to get him on the tele¬ 
phone, but I suppose now that I mud have handed 
him the wrong letter by mistake. Anyhow, when 
my bell rang, I said, ‘ Is that you, Dick P ’ 

“ * Yes,’ said the voice at the other end. 

“ I said, ‘ I say, it’s all right about your peer¬ 
age.’ 

“ He said, 4 What ? ’ It sounded as though he 
were surprised. 

44 I said, ‘ It’s all right about your peerage. It’ll 
be in the New Year’s Lift.’ 

“ He said, 4 But who are you ? ’ 

44 4 Headley, of the Whips’ Office,’ I said. 

44 4 Are you sure there’s no miftake ? ’ I heard 
him ask. ‘ I only sent you ten thousand.’ 

44 I couldn’t make out what he was getting at. 

“ 4 Ten thousand what ? ’ I said. 4 I don’t 
follow you.’ 

“ ‘ All right,’ he answered. ‘ Mum’s the word. 
I quite underftand.’ And he rang off. 

44 It sounds ftupid, I know, but it wasn’t until 
he was gone that I realized what had happened. 
Through giving my secretary the wrong number, 
I had been speaking to what the coroner calls 4 the 
deceased.’ I ran and told the Chief at once. He 
said I muft go round and explain to Dix what I’d 
done. I didn’t relish this particularly, but I 

160 


MYSTERY OF MANAGING DIRECTOR 


hu^Ued into a cab straight off. When I got to the 
Stores, I found that he was dead. 

“ I was in the devil of a tew, but there was only 
one thing to be done. I went back and told the 
Chief, and he said, ‘ Go to the inquest and see what 
happens. We’ll return the money to Dix’s bank, 
and if necessary I mut try and square the coroner. 
Fortunately, he’s a member of the local association.’ 

“ Well, that’s what we did. You see now why 
the doctor was so certain that poor old Dix had 
died from shock. Anyone would, who got a peer¬ 
age as cheap as that. As for ‘ Lord Knights- 
bridge,’ of course, the explanation is that he was 
practising writing his new title. And as for his 
clothes, isn’t it obvious that he wanted to see what 
he would look like in Court Dress ? ” 

I Glared at Tom in amazement. And then a 
thought truck me. 

“ Yes,” I said. “ But why did the telephone 
witness say that the line was out of order ? ” 

Tom laughed. 

“ Stop and think,” he said. “ Does the London 
Telephone Service ever know which of its lines are 
out of order ? Of course it doesn’t. Besides, the 
Potmater-General is going to get a peerage too.” 


161 


M 


VII 

GIBSON AND THE WAGER 


“ T WONDER if you have ever paused to con- 

1 sider,” said Gibson, sinking back into the 
armchair next to mine, and crossing his legs, 
“ what a debt you writers owe to the Savoy Hotel. 

“ No, no,” he added, as I was about to reply to 
this observation, “ I’m not speaking in terms of 
money. So far as that goes, I agree with you that 
very few writers ever enter the Savoy at all—except 
as other people’s guests. But I was thinking of the 
indispensable part which that particular hotel has 
come to play in the opening scenes of what are 
generally known as ‘ Shockers.’ However success¬ 
ful rival establishments may be in other respeCts, 
the position of the Savoy as the one suitable setting 
for the beginning of this kind of Story remains 
unassailable. I fancy that its closeness to the river 
may have something to do with this; for there 
seems a very general belief among authors of fidlion 
that once you have got your characters on to the 
Thames Embankment, all ordinary laws of proba- 

162 


GIBSON AND THE WAGER 


bility are suspended. Curiously enough, I have 
noticed the same feeling in New York in connec¬ 
tion with Riverside Drive. What is it, I wonder, 
about these waterside boulevards . . . ” 

He paused meditatively for a moment, and then 
continued. 

“ And yet, after all, there may be more in it than 
one would at firdt sight believe. There is no smoke 
without fire, you know. And oddly enough, one of 
the strangest experiences in my own life had its 
origin in a dinner at the Cafe Parisien at the Savoy.” 

I saw now where he had been leading me. 

“ Perhaps you will tell me about it ? ” I sug¬ 
gested. 

“ Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” he 
replied; and he began his dtory at once. 

***** * 

Although he has played many minor parts in his 
time (said Gibson), it is quite likely that you have 
never heard of my friend John Freemantle, the 
adtor. I certainly doubt whether I should ever 
have heard of him myself, but for the fadt that in 
the distant padt we were schoolfellows together. 
And even so, if we had not always kept up a fludtu- 
ating kind of acquaintanceship, his name would 
have meant nothing to me on a theatre programme; 
for until he left school and was given his firdt part 

163 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


—as one of twenty-five guests at a bigamous 
wedding—he had been known to the world more 
simply and less euphoniously as J. F. Snell. 

Perhaps it was his experience of the temptation 
which he had thus afforded to the shafts of school¬ 
boy wit, which made him abandon his original 
surname and expand his initials; possibly there 
were family reasons of which he never told me; but 
in any case it was as John Freemantle that he 
assumed, with great satisfaction to himself, a series 
of more or less insignificant roles on the London 
and provincial boards. Fortunately for him, he 
was possessed of quite adequate private means, and 
so long as he could pass through a tage door about 
half-pat seven for six nights in a week, change his 
clothes, smear his face, exhibit the result to the 
public, and leave again about half-pat eleven, he 
was perfectly happy and perfectly harmless. It was 
only in the intervals between his engagements that 
he would develop signs of a certain sensitiveness 
about his career and his profession which made him 
a little exhauting to the people whom he met. 
And as he was incapable in any circumtances of 
discussing any subject unconnected with the tage, 
I, at any rate, had come to take special pains only to 
see him when I was certain that he was in what he 
used to call a “ shop.” 


164 


GIBSON AND THE WAGER 


But when, one day, I found a telephone message 
waiting for me which contained an invitation to 
dine with Mr, Freemantle at the Savoy Hotel— 
where he was then flaying—at seven o’clock sharp, 
I had very little hesitation in accepting it. For not 
only did it seem incredible to me that anyone could 
wish to dine at such an hour unless they had some 
immediate and pressing reason, but I also remem¬ 
bered, as it happened, that I had read a notice of a 
new play, well within the la£t three weeks, in which 
John Freemantle’s name had actually been men¬ 
tioned. Of course it was a bit awkward that I had 
neither seen this entertainment nor, for the moment, 
could recall its title, but £till, with less than an hour 
for our dinner, there seemed to be considerable 
hope that a little taCtful lying would enable me to 
conceal these fafts. 

I found him waiting for me when I arrived, and 
he seized my forearm affectionately with a sort of 
Shakespearean grip. 

“ Good lad,” he said, throwing the words well 
off his cheCt. “ Shall we to the banquet ? ” 

“ Oh, rather,” I answered, shaking myself free. 
I got rid of my hat and coat, and we went through 
into the Cafe Parisien. 

John Freemantle seemed to be well known to 
the waiters, and a group of them conducted us to a 

i6 5 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


table by the wall. For some minutes all conversa¬ 
tion was direfted to the subject of food, but I knew 
that as soon as this had been settled I would be 
expected to talk about the £tage; and as, after all, 
I was getting a very good dinner for nothing, I 
couched my preliminary observation in the form 
which I felt would make it easiest for my ho£t to 
include also in his answer some reference to him¬ 
self. 

“ Well, John,” I said—I called him " John ” 
more because he called me “ Henry ” than because 
we were really intimate—“ Well, John, how’s the 
show going ? ” 

This seemed to me the very essence of taft. 
But to my surprise his face darkened, his brows 
descended, his lip curled, and his voice shook with 
passion. 

“ The show! ” he snorted. “ It came off on 
Saturday. Killed dead by the critics—curse their 
souls! ” 

I’m afraid my next remark escaped me before I 
could £top it. 

“ Then why on earth are we dining so early ? ” 
I asked. 

Yet, as a matter of fa6f, I could hardly have said 
anything which would more quickly have restored 
John Freemantle’s conceit. He looked round, 

166 


GIBSON AND THE WAGER 


gathered in the eyes of the nearest half dozen diners, 
settled his tie with a flourish, and answered in a 
very loud voice: “ The fad is, old man, that I’m so 
used to dining early before the theatre, that I quite 
forgot to make it later.’’ 

Again he looked at the neighbouring tables, 
colledted his meed of imaginary applause, and 
attacked his consomme . I was left wondering, for 
the thousandth time, why it was that adtors should, 
simply by virtue of their calling and quite irre- 
spe6live of their merits or success in it, suffer under 
such an inexplicable delusion as to their importance 
in the eyes of the general public. From the ex¬ 
pression on John Freemantle’s face one might have 
thought that he had judt said, “ I always dine early 
because it is my pradlice to qualify for the Royal 
Humane Society’s medal immediately afterwards,” 
or, “ because it is my custom to spend the evening 
discovering the North Pole.” 

But, poor fellow, his complacency didn’t ladt 
long. He entertained me during the fish and 
entree with details of the alleged conspiracy which 
had resulted in his ladt engagement terminating so 
suddenly, and from then on he delivered a series of 
slashing attacks on all the mo£t celebrated pro¬ 
fessionals of the day. This one was known to owe 
his success to Court influence, that one had never 

167 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


been sober for twenty-five years, and yet another 
had only escaped prosecution for the mo£t un¬ 
mentionable crimes by leaving hastily on a world 
tour. As for adting, of course they could none of 
them ever hope to adf. They couldn't play gentle¬ 
men because they had all been brought up at 
reformatories, and they couldn't play charadfer 
parts because they hadn’t even troubled to mailer 
the elements of make-up; or if they had, then they 
were too conceited to risk spoiling their own beauty. 

“ But wait a minute,” I said at this point. 
“ Surely you’ll admit that Dash ”—I named a well- 
known tragedian who had recently become his own 
manager—“ surely you’ll admit that Dash knows 
how to make up ? I shall never forget seeing him 
as the hump-backed negro in—in whatever the 
thing was called.” 

“ Dash ? ” sneered John Freemantle, snapping 
his fingers; and then, a little inconsequentially as 
it seemed to me, he added: “ Did you ever see me 
as the old grandfather in Mrs. Murgatroyd's Mis¬ 
take ? ” 

Strangely enough, I had. In the play in question 
John Freemantle had appeared on the £tage for 
rather under two minutes, but on me at any rate 
he had made a deep and lasting impression. * Never 
in my life had I seen anyone so incredibly ancient, 

168 


GIBSON AND THE WAGER 


so completely gone at the knees, so amazingly 
quavering about the voice, or so incomparably 
unlike anything in heaven or earth. A very con¬ 
servative estimate would have set this grandfather’s 
age at two hundred and fifty years—and even at 
that no one could say that he had worn well. 

“ Do you know,” pursued John, fixing me with 
his eyes, “ that it used to take me two hours to 
make up for that part every night, and another 
hour and a half to get it all off again ? ” 

“ No! ” I exclaimed. “ Did it really ? ” 

“ It did, though,” he answered. “ Why, at the 
dress rehearsal they nearly had me turned out of 
the theatre. No one had the leaSt idea who I was. 
That was something like a make-up! ” 

“ It was indeed,” I said fervently. 

“ But it isn’t only old men that I can manage so 
well,” he went on, smiling happily. “ Why, I’d 
bet you five pounds that I could come up to you in 
any charadter that you like to mention, and until I 
told you, you’d never guess who it was.” 

This, I thought, was going a bit far. Even such 
a masterpiece as the old grandfather mu£l have 
aroused my suspicions anywhere but at a 
theatre. 

“ I’ll bet you ten pounds you couldn’t,” I 
retorted. “ Why, of course I should know you.” 

169 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 

John Freemantle slapped the tablecloth with his 
hand. 

“Done!” he exclaimed. “Now, look here. 
Ten pounds in even money that I come up and 
speak to you, and that you don’t know who I am 
until I tell you. Is it a go ? ” 

“ Of course it is,” I said. “ That tenner will 
suit me very well. But wait a second; we mu£t 
have a time limit. I’m not going to go on looking 
out for you in one disguise after another for the 
re£l of my life.” 

“ I’m only going to try it once,” said John, 
“ because that will be quite enough. But to make 
it easier for you, I’ll give myself a time limit of 
three days. Now, then, we’ll £tart from when you 
leave the Savoy to-night. Is that all right ? ” 

“ Quite,” I said. “ So I’ll begin spending the 
money at once.” And I called to the waiter to 
bring us some £till bigger cigars. 

“ Help yourself,” I said to John. “ No one can 
say that I’m not generous with my winnings.” 

He took his gift at once, but so moody and 
ab£lra£led had he suddenly become, that it was 
fully five minutes before he remembered to light it; 
and from then onwards until I left him, I could see 
that his whole mind was given up to considering 
exaftly what form of disguise he should assume for 

170 


GIBSON AND THE WAGER 


my benefit. Such answers as he made to my obser¬ 
vations showed clearly that his thoughts were any¬ 
where but in the Cafe Parisien , and at la£l, shortly 
before ten, worn out by his silence and preoccupa¬ 
tion, I got up and said I mud be going. If I had 
stayed any longer, I should have begun to yawn in 
his face. 

“ Look here,” he said, frowning ponderously; 
“ about this bet. You’ll promise not to say after¬ 
wards that you knew it was me all the time ? ” 

“ My dear John,” I answered with dignity, “ I 
am an Englishman and a sportsman. Of course, I 
shall be scrupulously honest over this business. 
If I don’t answer you inside two minutes by saying 
‘ Hullo, John! ’ then the money is yours. Is that 
good enough for you ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t want to make it as difficult for you 
as all that,” he protected. 

“ You are at liberty to make it as difficult as ever 
you can,” I said. And having thanked him again 
for my evening’s entertainment, I saw him into the 
lift and turned to leave the hotel. 

But at this moment, as chance would have it, I 
suddenly felt a slap on the back, and looking round 
saw a second cousin of mine, named Aubrey 
Wotherspoon, and his wife. 

“ Hullo,” said Aubrey, heartily. “ The very 

I 7 I 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


man we want. Marjorie’s dead keen on dancing, 
and I’ve twilled my hock.” (He was a hunting 
man, as you may have gathered.) “ Come along 
to the ballroom and give her a turn.” 

Of course I said I should be delighted; I 
couldn’t very well say anything else; and for more 
than another hour Marjorie and I capered together 
over the parquet, while Aubrey sat beaming at us 
by the wall. I have never been a very good dancer, 
but my partner made it as easy for me as she could; 
and I was juft getting properly into my stride, as it 
were, when some other friends of theirs came 
drifting in from a theatre, and I found myself 
released. For another ten minutes or so I hung 
about, waiting to see if I should be wanted again. 
But Marjorie was now hard at work with a young 
man who dipped and plunged like a pro., and I 
realized that I had served my turn. I said good¬ 
night to Aubrey, collefted my hat and coat, and 
went out into the Strand. 

The rain which had been falling when I arrived 
had now stopped, and after my evening in the well- 
heated hotel, I thought it would be pleasant to walk 
at any rate some of the way home towards Down 
Street, where I then lived. I set off at once at a 
£leady pace. 

I had reached the neighbourhood of Leicester 

172 


GIBSON AND THE WAGER 


Square without meeting with any adventures, but 
at this point my wandering thoughts were suddenly 
recalled to this world. A figure in a raincoat and a 
battered felt hat had come darting out of an arch¬ 
way, and before I could slip to one side or ward him 
off, he and I became involved in a kind of dagger¬ 
ing embrace. 

“ Look out where you’re going, sir,” I said, 
shoving him away from me. And as I did so, the 
figure looked up at me cringingly. In the light 
from the neared dreet lamp I saw a villainous, 
wrinkled, yellow face; the face, in fad, of an un- 
midakable Chinaman. 

He dood there, showing his discoloured teeth in 
a grin of cowardly defiance, and at the same moment 
a sudden light burd upon me. I depped forward 
again. 

“ Hullo, John,” I said cheerily. “ Where’s my 
ten pounds ? ” 

I jud had time to see the look of horror and 
surprise which flashed into his countenance, when 
a heavy hand descended on my shoulder from 
behind. 

“ Now then, now then,” said a gruff voice. 
“ What about it ? ” 

I looked round quickly, and found myself in the 
grip of an enormous police-condable. With his 

173 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


other hand he had already caught hold of the 
supposed Chinaman by the sleeve of his raincoat. 

“ Vine Street,” said the policeman, laconically. 
“ Now come along like good boys.” 

I peered under his helmet. For the moment the 
thought had darted into my mind that it might be 
he, and not the Chinaman, who was really John 
Freemantle. But he was a good six inches too tall. 

I turned back again. 

“ Come on, John,” I said. “ Tell him what 
you’re doing.” 

“ None of that,” the policeman broke in. “ I 
seed what you was doing all right; and I ’eard what 
you said. You come along quiet.” 

“ You don’t underhand, sergeant,” I said. 
“ This gentleman is a friend of mine. We’re doing 
this for a bet.” 

“ You tell that to the Superintendent,” replied 
the policeman. “ If you say anything else, I shall 
’ave to report it. ’Ere,” he added, raising his voice 
to a passing taxi-driver. The cab slowed down and 
flopped by the curb. 

“ In you get,” said the policeman. 

There seemed nothing for it but to obey. If 
John chose to carry his joke as far as the police 
station, the only alternative was a free fight on the 
pavement. 


174 


GIBSON AND THE WAGER 


“ Vine Street,” shouted the policeman out of the 
window, and off we went. 

The next thing of which I became aware was 
that my fellow-prisoner was leaning heavily against 
me on the back seat; and as I tried to edge away 
from him, he seized my hand and, with a whispered 
word which I failed to catch, forced something into 
it that felt like an envelope. I supposed that this 
was the ten pounds; that John meant—for some 
reason which only an a£tor could underhand—to 
carry his imposture through to the finish; and that 
this was his way of getting me to back him up. I 
slipped it quietly into my pocket, wondering what 
the deuce he was going to do when we reached 
the police Elation. 

But at this moment we swung into the brilliant 
lights of Piccadilly Circus. I turned my head to 
inspedl, with the help of this illumination, the 
details of my friend’s unexpe6ledly successful 
make-up; and I saw at once what you have 
probably already guessed. The man wasn’t John 
Freemantle at all. No disguise on earth could have 
transformed my old schoolfellow’s well-marked 
features into that flattened mask. I felt a brief 
sensation of indescribable nausea. And then, as 
the cab moved forward out of the block in which it 
had been waiting, I took a desperate resolution. 

175 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


“ Look here, inspedtor,” I said, addressing the 
policeman. “ I give you my word that this thing’s 
a mistake. I’ve never seen this man before in my 
life. Now, if five pounds-” 

“ That’ll do,” snapped the incorruptible official. 
“ You’ll be sorry you said that, my man.” 

“ No, I won’t,” I said; and at the same 
moment I flung myself at the door of the cab, 
wrenched the handle back, fell heavily into the 
Street, bounded up again, and was off as faSt as I 
could possibly tear. From behind me I could hear 
a roar of baffled rage, but I never looked round for a 
second. I dodged in front of a motor-omnibus, 
scattered a group of pedestrians on the pavement, 
dived down the alley by the side of St. James’s 
Church, swung across Jermyn Street and down 
York Street, and never Stopped until I had reached 
the Wanderers’ Club in St. James’s Square. I 
hurtled through the glass doors. 

“ Is Mr. Smithson in the Club ? ” I asked breath¬ 
lessly of the porter. 

I had chosen the firSt name that had entered my 
head, for there was no time to Stop and think, but 
to my surprise I seemed to have hit on a real one. 
I saw the porter haStily setting my dress clothes 
againSt my muddy and exhausted appearance, 
and deciding that they could be held to excuse 

17 6 



GIBSON AND THE WAGER 


the manner of my intrusion, and then he an¬ 
swered : 

“ I don’t think so, sir. But if you’ll wait in here, 
I’ll go and make sure.” 

I found myself conduced into a little sort of 
waiting-room leading out of the hall, and there I 
did my be£t to regain my breath while the porter 
went on his search. In a couple of minutes he was 
back again. 

“ No, sir,” he informed me. “ Mr. Smithson 
left half an hour ago.” 

“ Too bad,” I said. “ Well, I mud try and get 
him at home.” I crossed to the window and pulled 
back the curtain, as if to see whether it were £lill 
raining. There was no one in sight outside. My 
captor mud, I thought, have decided to £tick to his 
bird in the hand and to let me go. It seemed to me 
a very sensible decision. 

“ Well, good night,” I said. “ I’m sorry to 
have troubled you. By the way, could you lend me 
a clothes-brush for a moment ? I’ve been rather 
badly splashed by a taxi.” 

“ Certainly, sir,” said the porter, and he mo£t 
obligingly detailed an underling to assist in remov¬ 
ing the signs of my recent adventure. Again I 
expressed my thanks, and then, with a rapid glance 
from the porch which £till revealed a deserted 

177 N 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


pavement, I turned up the collar of my coat and 
moved quickly away. 

I had reached St. James’s Street without further 
molestation, and had juSt decided to treat myself to 
a cigarette when, in feeling in my pocket for my 
case, my hand lighted unexpedtedly on something 
else. 

“ By Jove,” I muttered, pulling out the envelope 
which was now my only souvenir of that brief but 
unpleasant cab ride. “ I wonder what’s in it.” 

I moved nearer to a lamp-poSt and examined the 
outside. The flap was gummed firmly down along 
its whole length, and apart from certain dirty 
smudges both sides were completely blank. As I 
pinched it thoughtfully between my finger and 
thumb, its contents seemed to yield and shift 
beneath the pressure. “ Well, why not ? ” I asked 
myself, and with a quick movement I tore off one 
of the corners. 

It was half full of what looked, at firSt sight, like 
tooth powder. And yet was it likely that anyone 
with teeth like the ones I remembered in that China¬ 
man’s mouth could have any real use for such Stuff ? 
I thought of tasting it, but no, it might be some 
kind of poison. I thought of throwing it away, but 
this seemed rather unadventurous. Finally, I 
inserted a cautious finger, brought it out again with 

i?8 


GIBSON AND THE WAGER 


a little of the powder on the end, and—very gingerly 
—bent over it to discover how it smelt. 

It was exactly at this moment that I heard a 
hoarse voice addressing me. 

“ Cheese it,” said this voice, in urgent tones. 
“ Do you want the bulls after you ? ” 

I spun round quickly. There was an outlandish- 
looking man Standing by my side, with a black 
beard and a broad-brimmed hat—rather like a Stage 
conspirator. 

“ Bulls ? ” I repeated. “ What on earth do you 
mean ? ” 

“ You’ll see what I mean all right,” he said, 
huskily, “ if you Start sniffing snow on the middle 
of the sidewalk.” 

“ Snow ? ” I echoed. “ But this can’t be snow.” 

“ Coke, then,” he substituted. 

“ And Still less is it coke,” I added. 

“ Say,” said the bearded man; “ you’re pretty 
fresh, ain’t you ? ” 

Again his meaning seemed to have escaped me. 
I peered queStioningly into his face, and at the 
same inStant something unnatural about the way 
that his beard joined his cheek connected itself 
suddenly with a thought which in the excitement of 
my escape had almoSt gone out of my head. How 
on earth John Freemantle had managed to shadow 

179 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


me all the evening without my noticing him, I had 
no idea; but if I were quick, my ten pounds would 
£till be safe. 

“ Hullo, John! ” I said loudly. “ You nearly 
had me then,” 

He looked at me in a kind of puzzled fury, but 
I wasn't going to £tand for any more bluff. 

“ Come on,” I said encouragingly. “ Off with 
the jolly old beard.” 

At once a venomous look came into his dark eyes. 
He made a quick feint with his left hand, and as I 
started back, he snatched the envelope from me, 
dealt me a savage kick on the leg, and the next 
moment was tearing away down the hill. 

“ Dash it all,” I thought. “ I mu£t have made 
another mistake.” And then, as a second wave of 
agony swept over my injured limb, I lifted up my 
voice. 

“Hi!” I shouted. “Hi! Come here at 
once! ” 

He turned his head for an infant—I can only 
imagine to yell some parting defiance—and as he 
did so, I saw a va£l, tenebrous figure £tep out from 
the darkness of a shop entrance and lift him clean 
off his feet with one hand. 

“ Now then,” said this apparition, warningly, 
and then he too saw the envelope. “ Ah, would 

180 


GIBSON AND THE WAGER 


you ? ” he growled, closing a gigantic fi£t over it. 
“ Got you with the goods this time, Jack. Eh ? ” 

Although I had, as you know, very special 
reasons ju£t at the moment for avoiding all un¬ 
necessary dealings with the Metropolitan Police, 
and although there could be no shadow of doubt 
that this mammoth figure was a plain-clothes officer, 
my curiosity overcame me. I drew nearer to the 
little tableau. 

“ Are you coming quiet, now ? ” I heard the 
dete&ive enquire, and even the unwelcome famili¬ 
arity of his words hadn’t the power to drive me 
away. 

“ None of your frame-ups,” snarled the captive, 
wriggling impotently. “ I was given that envelope 
by that guy over there. I ain’t got no more notion 
what’s in it than nobody at all. And take your fi£t 
out of my windpipe,” he added feebly. 

The plain-clothes officer looked at me sus¬ 
piciously, but it was too late to retire. I opened my 
overcoat, so that my dress shirt should show to the 
be£t effeft. 

“ What’s that he says ? ” I asked haughtily. 

The officer saluted with his free hand. 

“ Says you gave him this ’ere packet of dope,” he 
announced. “ I’m afraid I’ll have to trouble you 
for your name and address, sir.” 

181 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


Once more I saw Vine Street looming before me. 
But there was no time for hedging. 

“ That’s all right, officer,” I said. “ Smithson’s 
my name. The Wanderers’ Club. I’m sorry I 
haven’t got a card on me.” 

“ And ’ave you ever seen this man before ? ” he 
asked, dangling his prisoner at me by the scruff of 
the neck. 

“ Yes,” I said, remembering that our whole 
interview mu£t have been witnessed. “ He came 
up and spoke to me ju£l now, and for a second I 
mistook him for a friend. But I discovered at once 
that I was wrong.” 

“ And you didn’t give him nothing ? ” 

“ On the contrary,” I said. “ He gave me a 
very vicious kick. But I think he’s in safe hands 
now, eh ? ” 

Strangled noises were coming from the prisoner’s 
throat, but the detedtive paid no attention to them. 

“ Quite safe, sir,” he chuckled gruffly. “ I 
don’t suppose we’ll have to trouble you about this 
again.” 

“I’m very glad to hear it,” I said truthfully. 

“ I’ve got all the evidence I want in this little 
envelope,” explained the plain-clothes man. 
“ We’ve been after him the bedt part of a week, but 
we’ve got him properly now. Smithson, did you 

182 


GIBSON AND THE WAGER 

say, sir ? Thank you, sir. Good night to you, 
sir.” 

I watched them marching off together, their 
back view presenting a very deceitful pi&ure of the 
friendliness of their relations, and then, once again, 

I turned up towards Piccadilly. It £lruck me that 
what with the Chinaman, the Conspirator, and Mr. 
Smithson of the Wanderers’ Club, the detective 
force at Vine Street would find themselves presented 
with as pretty a problem as any that could have 
come their way for quite a considerable time. Yet 
it also occurred to me that it might be a good thing 
if I hurried on certain plans which I had at this 
time for paying a visit of some months to the 
continent. 

Meanwhile I was becoming increasingly aware 
of a painful stiffness in the leg which had been sub¬ 
jected to the double strain of my leap from the 
moving taxicab and of the alleged dope-fiend’s 
attack. By the time I reached the corner of my own 
street, I really could hardly walk; and between 
this corner and the door of my flat I should think 
that I muCt have stopped nearly a dozen times, 
while I clutched at the railings and relieved myself 
with a selection of groans and curses. But at length 
I dragged myself up my Clairs and, taking out my 
latchkey, opened my own front door. 

183 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


As I did so, I had a strange impression of a brief 
flash of light through the door of my sitting-room. 
It was gone as quickly as it had appeared, but as 
mine was a service flat, into which no one with any 
business to do so could be expedled to enter for 
another six or seven hours, I raised my voice and 
called out. 

“ Hullo,” I said. “ Is anyone there ? ” 

Dead silence greeted this enquiry. After all, I 
thought, perhaps I imagined it, or perhaps it was a 
light from some vehicle in the street shining for a 
moment through the window. I slipped off my 
overcoat, dropped my hat on to a chair, and cross¬ 
ing the hall, switched on the light in my bathroom. 

At this point the telephone bell in the sitting- 
room suddenly began to peal. 

“ Oh, curse the thing! ” I muttered, and once 
again I limped out into the hall. Who on earth, I 
wondered, could want to ring me up at nearly one 
in the morning ? Another of those infernal wrong 
numbers, mod likely. 

I put my hand on the switch ju£l inside the 
sitting-room door, and turned on the light. The 
next moment both my arms had shot up in the air, 
in obedience to an irresistibly worded command. 
Standing in the middle of the room was a seedy- 
looking man with an uncommonly dirty face, and 

184 


GIBSON AND THE WAGER 


in his right hand, which was diredted unwaveringly 
towards my waistcoat, was a horrible little black 
automatic pistol. 

“ And keep ’em up,” added this alarming vision, 
taking a Step towards me. 

“ This,” I thought, “ is quite unmistakably my 
unlucky evening. I wonder what happens next.” 
But I said nothing; I only refledted on the extreme 
annoyance which it would cause me should that 
automatic piStol accidentally go off. 

“ Nah, then,” said the seedy-looking man. 
“ Wot ar t you doing ’ere ? ” 

But for the presence of that piStol my retort 
would have been obvious. For the moment, how¬ 
ever, the tu quoque Struck me as a very much over¬ 
rated form of repartee. 

“ Dash it all,” I protested. “ This is my 
flat.” 

“ Wot r ” said the seedy-looking man. “ But 
you’re not the Honourable Wokingham ? ” 

Nothing exasperates me more than the misuse by 
the lower orders of courtesy titles. 

“ Mr. Wokingham,” I said with great emphasis, 
“ lives upStairs.” 

“ Blimey,” exclaimed the seedy-looking man. 
“ I’ve been and cracked the wrong crib! ” 

All this time the telephone bell had continued to 

185 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


ring, but at this point it topped abruptly, and with 
the cessation of sound a sudden idea came flashing 
into my mind. Did bona-fide burglars, I asked 
myself, ever really say “ Blimey ? ” Wasn’t there 
something a little stagey about that reference to 
cracking a crib ? And what was more, didn’t John 
Freemantle know perfectly well that I lived in the 
same block of flats as Fred Wokingham ? I 
dropped my hands and opened my mouth. 

“ Hullo, John,” I said. “You nearly-” 

Bang went the automatic pistol; there was a 
shivering of glass just to the left of my head, where 
the ‘ Monarch of the Glen ’ hung; and my arms 
went up again like a jack-in-the-box. 

“ Look out, you fool-” I began, but my 

words were cut short at once. 

“ You blooming well do wot you’re told,” said 
the intruder. “ And don’t you Start calling me 
names. I shan’t miss you next time. See ? ” 

I saw only too well that that unlucky wager had 
landed me for the third time that night in a hideous 
misunderstanding, and that on this occasion it had 
nearly coSt me my life. But what could I do, except 
continue to Stand there on my aching leg, with my 
arms becoming Stiffer and more uncomfortable 
every second ? 

Meanwhile, in the burglar’s countenance there 

18 6 




GIBSON AND THE WAGER 


appeared a convulsive spasm, which seemed to 
register the birth of a fresh thought. 

“Look , ere, ,, he said,again taking a Step towards 
me. “ ’Oo told you as I was called 4 John,’ eh ? ” 

I tried to laugh. 

“ Nobody,” I said. “ At lea£t, it’s no use trying 
to explain. You wouldn’t believe me if I told 
you.” 

“ No,” said the burglar, with the utmost vehem¬ 
ence. “ I would not . And do you know why, 
miller blinking boiled shirt ? Cos, if you ar£l me, 
you ain’t got no more business in this flat than wot 
I ’aven’t. Tried to kid me I’d come to the wrong 
address, did yer ? D’yer think I don’t see your 
little game ? ” 

I could only gape at these my&erious 
suggestions. 

“ Ho, yuss,” added the burglar, his eyes now 
rolling with fury and the muzzle of his automatic 
wobbling wildly all over my person. “ D’yer think 
I’m such a mug I don’t see wot you’re after ? Why, 
you ruddy swell, I ’eard that limp of yours the 
minute you come inside the door. Gentleman 
Jenkins of Portland Gaol, that’s your number. 
But I’ll learn yer to come ’ere, doing an honeSt cove 
out of a job. Them Wokingham sparklers is mine, 
d’yer see ? And when I’ve got ’em, I’m going to 

187 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 

leave you ’ere for the cops. Nah, then, wot abaht 
it ? ” 

“ I assure you-” I began expostulating, and 

at these words the telephone bell Started ringing 
again. Without thinking, I made a movement 
towards it, but I was Stopped at once by a yell of 
rage. 

“ None of that,” barked my visitor. ‘‘You Stay 
where you are. I’ll attend to this for yer.” And 
Still covering me with his piStol, he crossed to my 
writing-table and lifted the receiver from the instru¬ 
ment. 

“ ’Ullo,” he said; and the next moment he had 
dropped the receiver like a hot coal, and clapped his 
hand over the mouthpiece. 

“ ’Ere; wot’s the game ? ” he asked, a look of terror 
spreading over his really uncommonly dirty face. 

“ Game ? ” I repeated, completely myStified. 

“ ’Ere’s Vine Street on the line,” he croaked. 
“ Asking for a Mr. Gibson. Is this another of 
your little tricks, or wot is it ? ” 

“ Vine Street! ” I gasped. This was the laSt 
Straw. By some appalling and inexplicable acci¬ 
dent my identity muSt have been discovered by one 
of those two police-officers, and if ever I escaped 
from the present horrible situation, I saw that it 
would only be to find myself in the dock—charged 

188 



GIBSON AND THE WAGER 


with heaven alone knew what. Forgetting every¬ 
thing else, I dashed towards the telephone. 

“ Let me speak to them,” I shouted. 

“ It’s a plant! ” shrieked the burglar. “ Keep 
back, you fool, or by gum, I’ll-” 

Crack ! went the pistol again, but without waiting 
to see if I were dead or alive, I flung myself on to 
him. There was a brief but violent struggle, 
another explosion from the automatic, a reeking, 
stifling smell of gunpowder and whisky, and then 
with a sudden, sickening vision of a million 
brightly coloured 6tars, the whole world went 
roaring away from me into a black mi£t. 

When I came to myself (Gibson proceeded, after 
pausing for a moment to let the effedl of this 
brilliant piece of description sink in), I found that 
I was lying in my bed. I was aching all over in 
every portion of my body, but nowhere more 
violently than in my head, which, as I could tell 
without attempting the impossible feat of moving 
my hands, was heavily bandaged. Presently there 
was a sound of the door opening, and the service- 
valet came in. 

“ Pull down the blind, for heaven's sake,” I 
groaned. “ And tell me, how many bullet holes 
have I got in me ? ” 


189 



ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


“ None, sir,” said the valet. “ Only that crack 
on the head, sir. And the doftor says you’ll soon 
get over that. I’m afraid he got right away though, 
sir.” 

“ The doftor do you mean ? ” I asked wearily. 

“ No, sir. The burglar. But I can’t find as he’s 
taken anything. Only smashed up your sitting- 
room a bit. Would you like some breakfast, sir ? ” 

“ No,” I said, shuddering. 

The vision of the valet faded away, and I passed 
off into an uncomfortable mixture of sleep and 
unconsciousness, with an intermittent nightmare of 
police and handcuffs. After what might have been 
minutes or months—I had no idea which—I heard 
the door opening again. 

“ Get out,” I said. 

“ I say,” answered a voice, “I’m awfully sorry 
about this, old chap, I-” 

I opened my eyes. For a moment I thought I 
was seeing my own ghoft. A figure with its arm 
in a sling and its face heavily decorated with Click¬ 
ing plafter was ftanding at the foot of the bed. 
Then I suddenly recognized it. 

“ Well,” I said, “ I can’t say that in the circum- 
ftances I think your disguise is in very good tafte. 
But you’ve loft your bet, old man. I know who 
you are perfeftly well.” 


190 



GIBSON AND THE WAGER 


“ Bet! ” shouted John Freemantle, while a sharp 
£tab of agony made me gasp for breath. “ I’ve 
come to tell you that infernal bet is off. I wish to 
heaven I’d never been such a thundering ass as to 
take it on.” 

“ What ? ” I exclaimed, trying to sit up, and 
falling back with another groan. “ Well, you don’t 
wish it any more than I do. But what’s made you 
change your mind ? ” 

“ I thought it would be a jolly good idea,” said 
John, “ to dress up as a woman and come round 
here la£t night and see if you’d let me into the flat.” 

“ Did you ? ” I asked, shutting my eyes again. 

“ Yes,” said John Freemantle. “ I borrowed 
some things from a girl I met at the Savoy, and I 
had a wig that I’d bought when I played Mercutio 
at Blackpool. Bobbed hair, you know. I dare say 
it would have been all right, if I’d come round in a 
cab; but like a silly idiot I thought it would be fun 
to walk. I only got half-way up the Haymarket 
when I saw that I was being followed by a police¬ 
man. I tried to dodge him, but it was no use. 
Then I got the wind up and Parted to run, but 
with those infernal skirts round my legs I hadn’t a 
dog’s chance. He caught me in a blind alley off 
Jermyn Street, and though I put up a bit of a fight, 
the brute got me down with some kind of jiu-jitsu. 

191 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


He dragged me off to Vine Street, with a crowd of 
beastly people jeering at me all the way and my face 
bleeding like a butcher’s shop where I’d hit the 
pavement. I did my be£t to explain that it was only 
a joke, and that I was doing it for a bet; I even got 
the inspeftor to try and ring up your flat, because I 
thought you might back me up or bail me out; but 
he couldn’t get any answer.” 

“ No,” I said. “ That’s quite right. He 
couldn’t.” 

“ Well,” continued John, “ I spent the night in 
the cells, and this morning I was had up before the 
beak and charged with masquerading in female 
costume and assaulting a police constable in the 
execution of his duty. I suppose I was dashed 
lucky to get off with a fine—the beak said I 
was, anyhow. And I had the sense to give them 
my real name, so it won’t hurt me professionally if 
it gets in the papers. But look here, old chap,” he 
added. “ What I really came round for was to pay 
you that tenner. You win all right, because I’m not 
going on. I’ve had about enough of it. But if it 
hadn’t been for that infernal policeman, I’d have 
shown you something.” 

“ Keep your filthy lucre,” I replied. “ I’m not 
going to make my living out of blood-money. 
Moreover,” I added impressively, “ little as you 

192 


GIBSON AND THE WAGER 


may know it, you have already shown me all and 
more than I could ever possibly wish to see.” 

And with these words I turned my face to the 
wall, and bur£t into a horrible peal of hideous 
laughter. 


193 


o 


VIII 

GIBSON AND THE BLUE EMERALD 


O NCE every two years the Caviare Club is 
closed for cleaning and decorating, and for 
about three weeks members are permitted to accept 
the hospitality of some rival institution, where they 
slink about forlornly, exposed to the critical glances 
of its inhabitants, and feeling rather like new boys 
during their firSt term at school. It is a difficult 
period for all of us, but at its conclusion we are so 
glad to be back again in our old quarters that it 
never occurs to us to enquire—as we might other¬ 
wise do—why the Caviare looks juSt as dirty as it 
did before we went away. In the rapture of regain¬ 
ing our favourite chairs and our own wine liSt, this 
question remains unasked and unanswered. And 
like a colony of ants who have been disturbed and 
then replaced, we resume all our former habits 
exactly as though we had never been interrupted. 
It becomes, indeed, almost a point of honour to 
pretend that our banishment has never taken 
place. 


194 


GIBSON AND THE BLUE EMERALD 


I was a little surprised, therefore, when a few 
days after our return from the St. John’s Club— 
which, as of course you know, prides itself on its 
diplomatic and Foreign Office connection—Gibson 
appeared by my side in the smoking-room and 
enquired: “ Well, how did you get on among the 
proconsuls ? ” 

“ At the St. John’s, do you mean ? ” I asked. 
“ Oh, nothing to complain of. But I only went 
there once. They seemed rather—well, rather 
fond of talking.” 

Gibson nodded agreement. 

“ I didn’t go at all,” he informed me. “ They 
let me £lay here, because I’ve got one of the bed¬ 
rooms. But I knew the St. John’s set well in the 
old days. I might even have been a member by 
now if things had turned out differently.” He 
smiled faintly, and then added: “ But perhaps you 
didn’t realize that I’d ever moved in that kind of 
circle ? ” 

“ No,” I answered. I didn’t particularly believe 
it either, but the time had long passed since I used 
to trouble myself about Gibson’s veracity. 

“ I did, though,” he went on. “ I was two years 
in the Foreign Office before I resigned. In faCt, 
I might well have been there yet, but for the jealousy 
that I aroused by being given the Order of the 

r 95 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 

Golden Cow when I was dtill only a Third Secre¬ 
tary.” 

“ The Golden Cow ? ” I repeated, interro¬ 
gatively. 

“ Yes,” said Gibson. “ Fourth Class, with the 
right to remain covered in the presence of everyone 
below the rank of archdeacon. That’s a bit of a 
rarity in these days, even at the St. John’s Club.” 

I could well believe it, and I said as much. 

“ Perhaps it might interest you,” he suggested, 
“ to hear how it was that I gained such an unusual 
didtindtion. What? Oh, no. Quite a short dtory. 
I’ll tell it you at once.” 

And leaning back in his chair and pressing the 
tips of his long fingers together, he began imme¬ 
diately. 

You mud excuse me (said Gibson) if in the 
course of this narrative I find it necessary to sup¬ 
press or alter the real names of some of the persons 
and places concerned. Quite apart from the pro¬ 
visions of the Official Secrets Adt, there are good 
reasons why, in the present dtate of international 
politics, I should be very careful to avoid giving any 
clue as to the identity of the very high personages to 
whom I shall have to refer. But as regards my own 
share in the matter, I shall be as scrupulous in dis- 

196 


GIBSON AND THE BLUE EMERALD 


pensing with any kind of exaggeration or misrepre¬ 
sentation as—well, as you have always known me to 
be. And it is, fortunately, with my own share that 
I shall have principally to deal. 

I was, as I have already told you, a Third Secre¬ 
tary in the Foreign Office in London. For nearly 
two years I had gone to work in a black coat and a 
bow tie, had shared a room looking over the quad¬ 
rangle with two of my colleagues, and for about 
six hours a day had occupied my time either in 
writing minutes to other members of the £taff or in 
drafting communications which might eventually 
serve as the basis of official dispatches. It was, on 
the whole, both a dignified and a peaceful existence, 
and if about ninety-five per cent, of everything that 
I wrote found its final reeling-place in one of His 
Majesty’s wa£le-paper baskets, no taxpayer had in 
those days ever been heard to complain of it. 

One morning in the late spring, when I had 
finished feeding the pigeons on my window-sill 
and was ju£l beginning to turn my mind to the 
thought of work, a messenger came in with the 
intimation that Mr. Vere-Tiverton—the head of 
my branch—would be glad if I would £tep along 
the corridor and see him at once. 

I found him sitting alone in his room, writing 
impressively with a quill pen on blue paper, and 

197 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


after I had £tood watching him for about ten 
minutes he turned abruptly to me and said: 

“ You speak Transylvanian, Mr. Gibson, I 
believe ? ” 

“ No,” I replied. “ I’m afraid not.” 

Mr. Vere-Tiverton picked up his quill and 
resumed his writing, and I was ju£t on the point of 
returning to my room when he suddenly laid it 
down again and added: “ Wait.” 

So I waited. Presently he stopped writing, 
read and re-read his composition with great care 
and a quantity of grimaces, and then, folding it 
over and over about sixteen times, he locked it 
away in a scarlet dispatch-box. 

“ Now then,” he said, taking off his spedlacles 
and putting on a pair of eyeglasses; “ would you 
be prepared to £lart for Spain to-night ? ” 

This was the fir£l time in my official experience 
that it had ever been suggested that I should leave 
England, but as Mr. Vere-Tiverton was now look¬ 
ing out of the window, my surprise passed un¬ 
noticed. 

“ Certainly,” I answered after a moment. “ Only 
isn’t a King’s Messenger going off to-” 

He interrupted me by tapping with his keys on 
the desk. 

“ Yes, yes,” he said. “ But the King’s Mes- 

198 



GIBSON AND THE BLUE EMERALD 


senger will be known. We muSt send someone 
who will not be suspected.” 

“ Oh,” I said, feeling rather bewildered. 

“ This is the position,” continued Mr. Vere- 
Tiverton. “A certain Personage—in fadt, I think 
I may safely say a certain Personage in a Very High 
Quarter—wishes to convey a gift—an extremely 
valuable gift—to a Scarcely Less Exalted Recipi¬ 
ent, on the occasion of the Recipient’s betrothal. 
The assistance of the Foreign Office has been 
requested, but we have been warned that the nature 
of the intended present has become known, and 
that attempts may consequently be made to inter¬ 
cept it en route . In these circumstances it seems to 
the Under-Secretary and myself that it would be 
better to entruSt its transmission to someone who, 
while fully fit to assume such a serious responsi¬ 
bility, will be less liable to invite attention or sus¬ 
picion than one of our ordinary messengers.” 

“ Oh,” I said again. And if I hadn’t been in the 
service for nearly two years I might have added, 
“ Then why not send it by registered poSt ? ” But 
experience had taught me that where my depart¬ 
ment was concerned, the longeSt way round was 
regarded not sometimes, but invariably, as repre¬ 
senting the shorteSt way home. So I held my 
tongue. 


199 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


Mr. Vere-Tiverton picked up a paper-knife and 
rattled it against his knuckles. 

“ By the way,” he said, “ I suppose you’ve got a 
uniform ? ” 

“ A uniform ? ” I repeated, wondering what this 
had got to do with it. “ I’ve got my rig-out in the 
yeomanry, if that’s what you mean.” 

“ That will do,” said Mr. Vere-Tiverton. “ His 
Serene Highness has always been very pundlilious 
on questions of costume, and never more so than 
since his exile.” 

“ Do you mean that I shall have to wear uniform 
all the time ? ” I asked. 

“ Not while you’re travelling,” he explained. 
“ But you had better put it on as soon as you arrive. 
And now, if everything’s quite clear, you’d better 
take this chit to the Finance Branch and see about 
getting your ticket.” 

I took the slip which he handed me and moved 
towards the door. But half-way there an idea £lruck 
me. 

“ Wouldn’t it be as well,” I said, coming back 
to the big desk, “ if you told me where it is that 
I’ve got to go, and whom it is that I’ve got to 
see ? ” 

Mr. Vere-Tiverton refledled for a moment on 
this suggestion, and then he rose, looked carefully 

200 


GIBSON AND THE BLUE EMERALD 


round the room, and, coming close up to me, 
whispered something. 

“ I beg your pardon ? ” I said, taking out my 
handkerchief and drying my ear. 

“ His Serene Highness, Prince Stanislas of 
Sauer&adt, ” he repeated. “ Ju£t outside San 
Sebastian.” 

“ Oh, yes,” I said. “ Quite.” 

“ Here are your in£lru6tions,” he added, un¬ 
locking the red dispatch-box and taking out the 
document which he had been writing when I came 
in. “I think you had better memorize them care¬ 
fully, and then destroy them. It wouldn’t do for 
them to be found on you.” 

“ Certainly,” I said. “ Thank you very much.” 
And then, ju£l as I was leaving, yet another 
thought came into my head. 

“ By the way,” I asked, stopping by the door¬ 
way. “ What is it that I’ve got to take to His 
Serene Highness ? ” 

“ Ah,” said Mr. Vere-Tiverton. “ Yes. Of 
course. Ju£l as well you reminded me.” He 
opened a drawer in his writing-desk, and took out a 
little leather case. “ This,” he explained; and as 
he spoke, he pressed the catch and opened the lid. 

Blinking on its white velvet bed, from where its 
myriad facets seemed to shine into every corner of 

201 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


the lofty room, I saw a large, oval, blue Stone. 
Right into its clear heart I peered, where mysterious 
fires seemed to leap and sparkle, and as I gazed at it 
in admiration and astonishment, Mr. Vere-Tiver- 
ton closed the lid again with a snap. 

“ It’s an emerald,” he said. 

“ Don’t you mean a sapphire ? ” I suggested. 

“ No,” he said shortly. “ It’s a blue emerald. 
So far as I am aware, it is the only blue emerald— 
at any rate of anything approaching this size—in 
the whole world. Take it,” he added, “ and under¬ 
stand that you are in no circumstances to let it out 
of your sight or keeping for a single inStant until 
you place it in His Serene Highness’s hands. Your 
success on this mission is of the utmoSl importance, 
not only to your career and to the Department 
which you serve, but also to—well, to a Very High 
Personage whom it would perhaps be better that I 
should not name.” 

I bowed deeply, and put the case in my pocket. 

“ Bon voyage ,” said Mr. Vere-Tiverton. “ It is 
a pity that you don’t speak Transylvanian, but I 
understand that His Serene Highness converses 
fluently in French; and in any event all you will 
have to do is to give him the case and come Straight 
back. I shall see you next week then. A rive- 
deni A 


202 


GIBSON AND THE BLUE EMERALD 


“ Auf wiedersehen ,” I replied, and this time I 
really did leave him. 

I returned to my room and, disregarding my 
colleagues’ request for details of my recent inter¬ 
view, set myself to mastering my written instruc¬ 
tions. 

They seemed simple enough. All I had to do 
was to proceed to Biarritz by the ordinary route, 
which would take me about a day and a half, drive 
over the frontier to His Serene Highness’s head¬ 
quarters at the Villa Frangipanni, present my visit¬ 
ing card to the Chamberlain, Count Zybska, hand 
over the jewel in its case to Prince Stanislas himself, 
and come home again. I repeated these particu¬ 
lars to myself until I was satisfied that I was word 
perfedf, and then tore the paper two or three times 
across. 

But my room had no fireplace in which I could 
burn these pieces, and as I didn’t like to take the 
risk of throwing them where someone else might 
afterwards pick them up, I fluffed them in my 
pocket, meaning to put them on my own fire when 
I went home to pack. And so it was that, while 
crossing the Horse Guards’ Parade, I pulled out 
my handkerchief to blow my nose, and instantly 
became aware that I was the centre of a kind of 
miniature blue snowstorm. 

203 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


“ Dash! ” I said, looping down to gather up 
the scattered fragments of minute paper. 

A bulky but good-natured stranger came to my 
assistance, and between us we had soon retrieved 
all but a negligible quantity. I’m not sure that I 
shouldn’t have managed it more quickly if I had 
been by myself, for the Stranger was severely handi¬ 
capped by his size, but I felt it would only look odd 
if I declined his help. So I thanked him warmly, 
and in a few more minutes I was back in my rooms. 
Once more I emptied my pocket of the scraps of 
paper, threw them on to the fire, and watched them 
twiSt and shrivel into ash. Once more I took out 
the little leather case, opened it, gazed wonderingly 
at the blue emerald, and then, juSt as I was going 
to put it back again, I changed my mind. The 
jewel itself should return to my pocket, but the 
case, which had added appreciably and therefore 
suspiciously to my contour, should travel separately 
in my dressing-bag. I smiled knowingly to myself 
as I made this decision, and, having carried it out, 
went through into my bedroom to begin packing 
my yeomanry uniform. 

I caught the boat train at Vidloria with plenty of 
time to spare, had a reasonably good crossing, with 
no signs that I was attradling any unusual kind of 
attention, and as soon as I reached Calais, made my 

204 


GIBSON AND THE BLUE EMERALD 


way to the wagon-lit which was to run right through 
to Biarritz. In accordance with Mr. Vere-Tiver- 
ton’s diredtions I had booked a whole compart¬ 
ment to myself, but in spite of the fadt that I had 
paid for and held two tickets, there was a little 
trouble with the conductor before we started. The 
whole coach, it appeared, was full, and a monsieur 
who had seen from the corridor that I was by 
myself would be very grateful if I could let 
him share my section. He was, of course, pre¬ 
pared to pay, and I gathered that he had already 
shown his ability to tip. But my inStrudtions 
were definite. I was very sorry, I explained, but 
I had recently been very ill, and in the circum¬ 
stances muSt insiSt on my right to remain undis¬ 
turbed. 

The condudtor tried persuasion. The other 
monsieur, it seemed, had also been ill. Then he 
tried being rude. But I Stuck to my point, and at 
laSt, shrugging his shoulders and spitting un¬ 
pleasantly through the window of the corridor, he 
took himself off. I bolted the door after him, 
and prepared to undress. 

But firSt of all, as soon as I had opened the fold¬ 
ing wash-basin which was fixed opposite the end of 
my berth, I took the blue emerald out of my waist¬ 
coat pocket and laid it down where I could keep my 

20 5 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


eye on it until such time as I should be ready to 
transfer it to the pocket of my pyjamas. 

I unlocked my dressing-bag, took out my sponge 
and toothbrush, and was perhaps half-way through 
my preparations for bed when my attention was 
attra&ed by a sound as of someone trying the door 
of my compartment. 

“ Who’s there ? ” I said sharply. And then, 
as an afterthought, I added: “ Qui e§l la} ” 

There was no answer. 

“ What do you want ? ” I called out. “ Qu ett 
que c eft que vous voulez ? ” 

Again there was no answer. The rattling had 
ceased, but even as I decided that my question had 
shown the would-be intruder his mistake, I sud¬ 
denly saw that the bolt was moving slowly back. 
The next second, and before I could reach it, the 
door had opened. On the threshold was Standing 
the same bulky-looking man who had helped me to 
pick up those pieces of paper on the Horse Guards’ 
Parade. 

My mind leapt to the explanation like a flash of 
lightning. He muSt, while offering me his unin¬ 
vited assistance, have caught sight of some scrap 
of writing which had given him a clue to my 
mission, and from that moment, I supposed, he had 
never really let me out of his sight. I saw at once 

206 


GIBSON AND THE BLUE EMERALD 


that there was no time to snatch up the blue 
emerald and attempt to conceal it. To do so 
would only be to indicate its position immediately. 

For what felt like many minutes, but mud in 
reality have been a matter of seconds only, we Stood 
watching each other beneath the glare of the eleSlric 
light. And then, with a sudden movement of his 
hand from behind his back, he flung himself at me. 
I raised my left arm to protedl myself, made an 
ill-dire6ted grab at the blue emerald, missed it, 
barked my knuckles on the edge of the basin, and 
saw it from the tail of my eye swinging back into 
its vertical position, and the next inStant my wri£t 
had gone down before a violent blow, and I was 
struggling powerlessly againSt the overwhelming, 
choking sweetness of a pad of chloroform. 

When I regained consciousness (Gibson con¬ 
tinued, after a short but effective pause) I found 
myself lying across the lower berth. My head was 
throbbing intolerably, the noise and vibration of 
the train were insupportable, and I felt that at any 
moment I might be devaStatingly sick. But the 
thought of the blue emerald gave Strength to my 
Stricken limbs. I tottered to the window and flung 
it up. We seemed to be running Steadily through 
thick wreaths of early-morning miSt, and as I drew 

207 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


the fresh air into my lungs, the firSt feeling of 
nausea left me. I turned back to examine the 
inside of my seCtion. 

Never in my life have I seen such an appalling 
vision of disorder and chaos. The contents of my 
dressing-bag and of the pockets of my clothes— 
including even my bundle of bank-notes—had been 
flung broadcast all over the little compartment. 
The carpet had been dragged from the floor, the 
blankets from the berths, and a series of gashes had 
been made in the two mattresses. Even the green 
shade had been torn from the light in the ceiling. 

I set painfully to work to repair some of this con¬ 
fusion before summoning such doubtfully sympa¬ 
thetic assistance as might be rendered by the con¬ 
ductor and, as I did so, a sudden thought struck 
me. 

If my assailant had indeed been in search of the 
blue emerald, as his contempt for my money would 
suggest, why should he have caused all this de¬ 
struction when all the time it was lying ready to his 
hand by the side of the wash-basin ? Could this, 
by any miraculous chance, mean that he had over¬ 
looked it ? I crossed again to the little folding 
cabinet and pulled it open. The next second a 
terrifying memory had flashed into my mind. I 
saw a vision of that laSt, protective movement 

208 


GIBSON AND THE BLUE EMERALD 


before unconsciousness had overcome me, and I 
realized that in missing my real object and knock¬ 
ing up the basin I mud have sent the blue emerald 
slithering down the wate-pipe, and that it was now 
lying on the permanent way at some unknown 
point on the two or three hundred miles which 
separated me from Calais. 

I sank back on my berth with a groan. What 
was the use of having accidentally saved my precious 
charge from that obese ruffian if my only clue to its 
present whereabouts was represented by an inde¬ 
terminate length of railroad track situated in some 
unknown portion of Picardy ? If only I had even 
the faintest idea of the time at which the attack 
had taken place, it might have been some help; but 
although I knew when the train had been due to 
leave Calais, I had taken no teps to check its 
punctuality. I couldn’t even recall having looked 
at a clock since I had left Victoria. 

Automatically I raised my aching arm to glance 
at my writ-watch, and the next intant my heart 
seemed to top beating as a wild, desperate hope 
darted into my mind. The glass had been shivered 
to atoms by the force of that sudden blow; even the 
case was dented and flattened againt my bruised 
flesh; but the little hands, arreted in their eternal 
progress, till pointed faithfully to seven minutes 

209 p 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


paSt one. Resolutely I disregarded the possibility 
of failure, while even such a faint chance of success 
yet remained. I bolted the door again, brushed my 
hair, resumed my discarded clothes, packed my 
bag, and sat down to await the train’s next Stop. 
I had a bad moment when I found that the little 
leather jewel-case was no longer anywhere to be 
seen, but even on this ominous sign I would 
turn a blind eye as long as it could possibly be 
done. 

And so, about a quarter of an hour later, you 
muSt imagine the long train pulling slowly into a 
sleepy-looking Nation. The very second that it 
flopped, I dropped my bag through the window, 
and in another moment I had dodged paSt the con¬ 
ductor and, seizing the bag from where it had fallen, 
was tearing up towards the front of the train. 

Raising my hat politely, and at the same time 
ostentatiously fingering a twenty-franc note, I 
addressed the engine-driver in my beSt French. 

“ Pardon me, monsieur,” I said, “ but would 
you have the goodness to inform me, as precisely 
as is possible, where this train was at seven 
minutes paSt one this morning ? ” 

“ Hein ? ” said the engine-driver, spitting un¬ 
sympathetically on the floor of his cab. 

I repeated my question. 

210 


GIBSON AND THE BLUE EMERALD 


“ Cinquante francs " said the engine-driver this 
time. 

There was no time for argument, and besides, 
the taxpayer would have to foot the bill. I handed 
him up his fifty francs. 

“ Ce$l fa," said the engine-driver. “ Et le train 
etait sur la voie .” And he laughed heartily at his 
own wit. 

“ You dashed idiot,” I thought. “ I hope you 
get your head knocked off in the next tunnel.” But 
aloud I said: “ Your pleasantry is very amusing. 
But am I to report you to my brother-in-law, the 
general manager ? ” 

“ By no means,” said the engine-driver. “ But 
for myself, I have only diredled this machine since 
Amiens.” And with these words he pulled a 
handle somewhere in his cab so that all further con¬ 
versation was made impossible by an agonizing 
noise of escaping £leam. 

I remained hidden until the train had left, and 
then set about discovering the quickest means of 
returning to Amiens. By three o’clock in the after¬ 
noon I had found my way to the office of the chej de 
gare at that Elation. 

“ Pardon me, monsieur,” I said, “ but I had the 
misfortune to drop from one of your excellent 

carriages on the Biarritz express la£t night a photo- 

21 I 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


graph of my late wife, which is of inexpressible 
value to me for reasons of sentiment the mo£l pure. 
Might I beg you to inform me at what point on 
your superb line the express found itself at seven 
minutes paSt one, the hour of my loss so sad ? ” 

“ Monsieur should address himself to the bureau 
of loSt propriety at Paris, ’ ’ replied the Elation-mailer. 

“ Without doubt,” I said. “ Nevertheless, I 
would desire particularly to assure myself of the 
exa£l neighbourhood of my misfortune in order 
that I may light a candle, or possibly several candles, 
in the neareSt church, and thereby receive the 
assistance of the blessed saints in my search.” 

“ For myself,” replied the Slation-maEler coldly, 
“ I am an atheisl.” 

“ A freemason perhaps ? ” I suggested. 

“ And what of it ? ” he enquired. 

“ Simply this,” I said. “ I am myself a PaSt 
Grand MaSter of the Ancient and Honourable 
Jupiter Lodge, number seven hundred and fifty- 
six, of Great Britain.” And seizing his hand as I 
spoke, I dug my finger-nails forcibly into the fleshy 
part of the palm. 

“ It is enough,” said the Station-maSter, wincing. 
“ At seven minutes paSt one this morning the ex¬ 
press for Biarritz was between Rue and Noyelles. I 
have the time-sheet here in my bureau.” 

212 


GIBSON AND THE BLUE EMERALD 


“ A thousand thanks,” I replied. “ Monsieur is 
of an amiability prodigious.” And giving his hand 
a final grip I hurried from his office. 

At half-paSt four I had reached Noyelles in yet 
another train, and leaving my bag in the cloakroom, 
I set out quickly along the road to the north. In a 
few minutes I had left the houses behind me, and 
at once I clambered over the neare£l fence, hurried 
across a couple of fields, and so reached the perma¬ 
nent way. 

Keeping my ears wide open for the sound of any 
approaching train—for the workings of French 
railway signals have always been an insoluble 
mystery to me—I began slowly making my way 
between the rails of the up line in the direction of 
the coaSt. The sun beat down pitilessly on the 
metals, but never for a second did I interrupt my 
crouching progress from sleeper to sleeper. Every 
inch of the ground was closely examined, and if I 
had time I could tell you of many unexpected things 
that I found, but though my hopes were raised 
again and again by a piece of broken bottle gleam¬ 
ing in the sunlight, of the blue emerald there was 
Still no trace. At the end of an hour I straightened 
my back and refreshed myself with a cigarette, 
and then, juSt as I was preparing to £lart again, I 
suddenly saw, lying in the middle of the six-foot 

213 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


way, an objedt that made my heart leap into my 
mouth. For though its lining had been wrenched 
out and its hinges broken, there could be no mistak¬ 
ing that little leather jewel-case. 

In the excitement of this discovery I was as 
nearly as possible run over by a goods train on the 
down line. But in another minute its laSl wagon 
had rattled out of sight round a curve, and placing 
the damaged case in my pocket, I resumed my 
weary walk. 

My hopes were now running high. It seemed 
clear that the thief, enraged by the discovery of the 
empty casket, had firSl wreaked his vengeance on 
the thing itself, and then flung it through the 
window. Surely, then, unless I had been fore- 
Stalled, somewhere between this point and the 
Station at Rue I should come on the blue emerald 
itself, lying lodged in a crevice of the road¬ 
bed. 

And the aStonishing thing is that I did. As a 
matter of fadt it hadn’t even fallen into a crack. It 
was perched temptingly on the very middle of a 
sleeper, and I firSt saw it winking at me when I was 
quite fifty yards away. The very next platelayer to 
come that way muSt inevitably have gone off with 
it, for it was simply asking to be taken. My luck 
seemed incredible; for a moment I thought I 

214 


GIBSON AND THE BLUE EMERALD 


should actually faint with excitement before I 
could reach it. 

But I didn’t; and by eight o’clock I had re¬ 
sumed possession of my bag; by ten o’clock I was 
back at Amiens; and by two o’clock I was sitting 
up in a crowded second-class compartment, jolting 
towards Paris. So far as my present trip was con¬ 
cerned, I had finished with such dangerous luxuries 
as sleeping-cars. 

I won’t describe the next Stage in my exhausting 
journey. But at laSt, about noon the following day, 
after travelling almoSt unceasingly for over sixty- 
five hours, I found my seventh train Steaming into 
Biarritz. I waited until everyone else had left the 
compartment, even until the platform had begun to 
empty, and then, hot, Stiff and dirty, I climbed down 
the Steps and went in search of my registered lug¬ 
gage which had preceded me by twenty-four hours. 

And here, as I approached the douane , my luck 
turned again, and I found that a second misfor¬ 
tune had befallen me. Why I hadn’t discovered it 
before, I don’t know. But I was certain enough 
now. My bundle of bank-notes, my visiting-cards, 
and my booklet of travelling-coupons were all 
there safe enough; but of the baggage-check for 
the box which contained my uniform there was no 
shadow or sign. 


215 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


Could I have overlooked it when I was gathering 

up my other property, or had-I rushed to the 

custodian of the douane and raised my hat. 

“ Pardon me, monsieur,” I said, “ but I have 
had the misfortune to lose the ticket for a box of 
mine which arrived laSt night on the train de luxe 
from Calais. Might I beg to be informed where 
one should address oneself in such circum¬ 
stances ? ” 

The douanier spat skilfully over his counter. 

“ A box ? ” he repeated. “ What description 
of box ? ” 

“ A brown box,” I explained. “ With many 
labels on it. Also on each end it was marked with 
my initials. ‘ H. G.’ ” 

“ And of what size ? ” asked the douanier . 

“ Like this and like that,” I said, demonstrating 
with my hands. 

The douanier seemed to be weighing his answer 
carefully, and again I took a bank-note from 
my pocket and twiSted it negligently between my 
fingers. 

Ca deft pour moi ,” said the douanier , leaning 
over and seizing it. “ As for the box, monsieur 
should perhaps address himself to the police. A 
box of such a nature was claimed by a gross gentle¬ 
man, it is now yeSterday.” 

216 



GIBSON AND THE BLUE EMERALD 


“ You mean he gave up the ticket for it ? ” I 
asked. 

“ Naturally,” said the official, and at this he 
cleared his throat so terrifyingly that I shut my 
eyes. When I looked again he had gone. 

The explanation was obvious, even if unsatis¬ 
factory. Foiled in his attempt to discover the 
emerald in my compartment or on my person, my 
assailant muSt have leapt to the conclusion that I 
had concealed it in my registered luggage. Barring 
the uniform, which would be expensive to replace 
and was, moreover, essential to my mission, the 
whole loss could well have been covered by ten 
pounds. And even this my Department would, in 
all probability, be quite content to pay. But was I 
to risk international complications by appearing at 
the distinguished exile’s court in a much-soiled 
travelling suit, or ought I to telegraph to London 
for another uniform, and so remain in uneasy 
possession of the blue emerald for a further inde¬ 
finite period ? 

In the end, after much uncomfortable cogitation, 
I decided to proceed to the Villa Frangipanni and 
lay the case, in confidence, before Count Zybska. 
And accordingly, after a bath and a shave at the 
Carlton, I chartered an automobile in which to 
complete the laSt Stage of my journey. You may 

217 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


be sure that I scrutinized the chauffeur pretty 
closely before I started, and that I kept a keen 
look-out on the road as we bowled along. But 
nowhere on the ten-mile ride did I detedt any 
indication that I was being watched or followed. 
I had a nervous moment, it is true, at the frontier, 
but I was only detained for a couple of minutes, 
asked a few perfun&ory questions, and immediately 
released. 

And so at ladt, about a quarter to three, my car 
drew up at the outer gate of His Serene High¬ 
ness’s temporary court. I handed my card to the 
porter on duty, and explained my desire for an 
interview with Count Zybska. The porter seemed 
to be expecting me. 

“ The automobile,” he said, “ mudt redt here. 
But if the senor will proceed to the Villa by the 
path which I shall show him, and present his card 
to the doorkeeper, he will then be conduced to 
His Excellency’s apartments.” 

“ Ten million thanks,” I replied. The porter 
scrawled some illegible symbol on the back of my 
card, returned it to me, pointed out the route with a 
wealth of southern gesture, saluted, and withdrew 
again into his lodge. I started at once up the £teep 
and winding path. 

I mud have walked for quite ten minutes 

218 


GIBSON AND THE BLUE EMERALD 


through a forest of palms and caCtuses, sweltering 
in the heat and beating the flies off with my hand¬ 
kerchief, before I firSt caught sight of the white 
walls of the house itself. And as I had no wish to 
increase the embarrassment of my visit by arriving 
in too sodden and exhausted a condition, I paused 
for a moment to recover my breath and to duSt my 
boots on the grass at the side of the path. For the 
thousandth time since I had Started I made use of 
the opportunity to feel the little lump in my waist¬ 
coat pocket; and then, to make assurance doubly 
sure, I glanced quickly round and, inserting my 
finger and thumb, extracted the blue emerald for a 
final inspection. 

Yes, there it was; as dazzling, as fairy-like and 
—to me—as odious as ever. I gave it one more 
polish againSt the sleeve of my coat, and then, juSt 
as I was on the point of putting it back, it seemed 
suddenly to leap from my hand and, before I could 
catch it again, it had gone. 

I bent down at once to recover it from the grass 
at my feet, but while my hand was Still less than 
half-way there I heard a hoarse command from the 
direction of the neareSt bush, a scurrying sound 
behind me, and inStantly my two elbows were 
seized in a vice-like grip, while something that felt 
like a knee was thruSt forcibly into my back. And 

219 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


at the same moment there Pepped out from the 
protection of an araucaria imbricata an unwelcome 
but familiar figure. For although he had now 
chosen to decorate his bulbous countenance with a 
small crepe mask, there could be no mistaking my 
old friend of the Horse Guards’ Parade. 

He waited no time in words, for I was com¬ 
pletely at his mercy. His pudgy fingers darted 
at my pockets, turning out the contents with a 
machine-like rapidity. I heard a startled gasp as 
he came on the damaged jewel-case, but the next 
second he had flung it away and was hard at work 
again. He snatched at my hat, ran his hands 
rapidly over it, and tossed it aside; he seized my 
nose so that I yelped with pain, and took the oppor¬ 
tunity to gaze into my mouth. And at each failure 
his methods became rougher and more objedlion- 
able. For days afterwards I was black and blue all 
over. 

And yet, for all the annoyance and even agony 
of the mauling to which I was being subje&ed I 
was hard put to it to conceal my triumph. Five 
seconds earlier and nothing could have saved the 
emerald from being his. I kept my eyes resolutely 
from the ground, determined to make no sign 
which could give him the slightest clue to my 
knowledge of its whereabouts. 

220 


GIBSON AND THE BLUE EMERALD 

It was the brute behind me who put the idea 
into his head. I heard him muttering something 
in an unknown tongue, and at once my bulky 
enemy had hurled himself on all-fours and was 
tearing over the ground like an ill-conditioned 
retriever. But, miraculously as it seemed to me, 
the blue emerald Still eluded him. Again and 
again he passed over the exaSt spot where I was 
certain that it had fallen, plucking feverishly at 
every inch of the ground, but with absolutely no 
result. I could scarcely believe my eyes. 

Suddenly he Stopped short, and sitting back on 
his feet, pulled out a long-barrelled revolver, 
tastefully mounted in mother-of-pearl. 

“ The emerald,” he panted, directing his 
weapon at my Stomach. “ Where is she ? ” 

I looked at him Stupidly. 

“ What emerald ? ” I asked. 

“ Assassin! ” he shouted, taking deliberate aim 
at me; and at the same moment the desperate 
chance on which I had counted came off. The 
villain behind me had no desire to be spitted on the 
same bullet which deprived me of my life, and he did 
exactly what I should have done myself. He let go. 

At once I slipped haStily to one side, leapt into 
the air, and fell heavily on the kneeling gunman. 
The piStol jerked out of his hand, and as my thumbs 

221 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


sank deep into the rolls of his throat, I really 
thought I had got him. But the odds were too 
heavily against me. As he choked and gurgled 
beneath my grip, I saw from the corner of my eye 
my other assailant creeping nearer and nearer. 
With a quick movement he had seized the mother- 
of-pearl pistol, and as he brought the butt end 
down on the back of my skull, I relapsed, for the 
second time in the la£t thirty-six hours, into utter 
unconsciousness. 

I don’t think (Gibson went on) that I can have 
been knocked out this time for very long, but when 
I came round again there was no sign of either of 
the thieves. My head was aching fit to burdt, but 
I set to at once to begin hunting for the blue emer¬ 
ald. My own explanation of the fat blackguard’s 
failure was that I mufi have been standing on it the 
whole time, but after twenty minutes of rapidly 
increasing anxiety, the appalling fadt had to be 
faced; the emerald simply wasn’t there. After all 
the horrors that I had been through, after travelling 
unceasingly for nearly three days, after being 
chloroformed, sandbagged, and reft of my luggage, 
I had reached the very threshold of success only 
to lose that infernal dtone within half a mile of the 
Prince’s villa. Of course, the two thieves mu£t 

222 


GIBSON AND THE BLUE EMERALD 


have seen it the second they had laid me out. They 
would have bolted at once, have left the grounds by 
climbing one of the walls, and already they were 
over the frontier or on the sea. I sank against a 
caCtus, groaning aloud, and as I did so, a gorgeously 
attired flunkey made his unexpected appearance. 

“ It is the visitor for Count Zybska ? ” he 
enquired in Spanish. 

“ Yes,” I said feebly. 

“ His Excellency is waiting,” said the flunkey. 
“ But perhaps the senor is unwell ? ” 

“ No,” I said rudely. “ I’ve only been making 
a daisy-chain. Take me to His Excellency at 
once.” 

He bowed impassively, and struggling to my 
feet I followed him across the reSt of the grounds 
and through a French window into a large and 
handsomely appointed room. The Count rose from 
a desk at which he was writing, and wrung my 
hand warmly. 

“ Your Excellency,” I said, “ you muSt pardon 
my abruptness, but there is no time to be lo£t. I 
have juSt been assaulted within five hundred yards 
of this very house, and though I did all that I could 
to protect it, the blue emerald has gone. Two men, 
one extremely £tout and the other smelling Strongly 
of garlic, have escaped with it. Apologies and 

223 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


explanations mu£l wait, but let me beg of you to 
telephone instantly to the mayor, or whoever 
controls the local police, so that an attempt may be 
made to arrest them before it is too late.” 

“ Yais,” replied Count Zybska, smiling at me 
amiably. “ It ees vairy fine days.” 

I saw at once that he had failed to apprehend my 
meaning, so I repeated myself in French. 

“ Barjaitment ,” said the Count when I had 
quite finished; and pointing towards a door in the 
corner, he went through an imbecile pantomime 
of washing his hands. 

“ No, no,” I shouted. “ Listen to this.” And 
I was ju£l Parting off again, this time in German, 
when the portiere at the end of the room rattled on 
its rings, and there entered a short, stocky figure in 
a green knickerbocker suit, with a bald head and, 
as far as I could judge at a ha£ly glance, an im¬ 
pediment in one of his eyes. 

“ Zut! ” said Count Zybska, with an appearance 
of some alarm. “ It ees ’Is Serene ’Ighness.” And 
turning to the new arrival he embarked at once on 
what I took to be an explanation of my presence. 

Prince Stanislas listened stonily, occasionally 
looking towards me with his less imperfedt eye, 
and when the Count at length ceased he said in 
French: 


224 


GIBSON AND THE BLUE EMERALD 


“ It is enough. But where, then, Mr. Gibson, 
is your uniform ? Do you think to insult us ? ” 

“ No, no, your Highness,” I exclaimed. “ Never 
would I have appeared in your presence without 
my uniform. But in the course of my voyage, 
alas, one has stolen it from me.” 

“Stolen!” repeated the Prince. “And the 
emerald, then. Is that also £lolen ? ” 

“ Your Highness,” I said quaveringly, “ I will 
tell you everything.” And I did. In the faint 
hope of mitigating his severity by explaining all 
that I had suffered for his sake I began at the 
beginning. If I exaggerated a little here and 
there, then I think it was no more than anyone else 
would have done. And, to tell the truth, the more 
I piled it on, the better the £lory seemed to be going. 
I described how twelve armed men had bur£t into 
my sleeping compartment in the train, and took all 
the credit for the ingenious idea of dropping the 
jewel down the wa£le-pipe and simultaneously 
breaking my own watch. 

“ CeSl magnijique ,” said the Prince, slapping his 
knickerbockers. “ C'ett epouvantable . Ah , si vous 
etiez de notre service! Continuez , monsieur . Con- 
tinuez toujoursA 

Encouraged by this success, I went on to de¬ 
scribe how twenty-four armed men had flung them- 

225 Q 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


selves on to me at Biarritz Elation, and how, though 
I had wounded moSt of them, they had succeeded 
in seizing my baggage. I told of the running 
fight over the frontier, in which I had been chased 
by forty-eight armed men in motor-cars. And I was 
juSt reaching the point where ninety-six men, all 
armed to the teeth, had ambushed me in the very 
grounds of the villa when His Highness flopped me. 

“ It is terrible,” he said. “ It is superb. And 
you escaped them all ? ” 

I had gone too far to go back. 

‘‘All,” I replied. 

“ Monsieur,” said His Serene Highness, “ you 
are a hero from a land of heroes. With ten men 
such as you, do you think we should be content to 
remain exiled in this desolate and abominable 
hovel ? Never. But we can and we will reward 
you. The Order of the Golden Cow (fourth 
class) shall be yours. Kneel, Monsieur Gibson, 
and receive it from the hands of a Prince who, 
whatever his misfortunes, can Still recognize 
devotion when he sees it.” 

The whole situation seemed to have passed out 
of my control. I prostrated myself with a jerk 
on the polished parquet, His Serene Highness 
raised his walking-Stick to administer the royal 
accolade, and—there was a little tinkle on the floor, 

226 


GIBSON AND THE BLUE EMERALD 


as from the turned-up end of my despised civilian 
trouser leg the blue emerald rolled out between my 
knees. 

“ Your Highness,” I said brokenly, as I snatched 
it up and held it out to him, “ this is the mod 
fortunate moment in my whole life! ” 


227 


IX 


THE STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF HENRY 

GIBSON 

H OWEVER the forces of reaction may have 
fared in the outer world during the laSt 
hundred years—and this is certainly not the place 
to try and answer such a dangerous question— 
there can be no doubt that in clubland, taking the 
matter of the election of members as a teSt, they 
have done pretty well. Slowly but surely in club 
after club the committee have succeeded in usurp¬ 
ing this right, until nowadays in the great majority 
of these places the old democratic tradition of uni¬ 
versal suffrage has become simply a tradition, and 
nothing more. 

But at the Caviare we have not yet, thank heaven, 
sunk as low as this. The form of eledtion which 
was established by our rude forefathers Still Stands 
inviolate. All candidates are balloted for by the 
entire body of members—or at any rate, by as 
many of them as take the trouble to turn up—and 
if in pradtice the blackball is but rarely used, it 

228 


STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF GIBSON 

remains, nevertheless, in existence as a protection 
and safeguard for the people’s sovereign rights. 

I mention these details of our constitution as a 
necessary introduction to the final phase of my 
acquaintanceship with Henry Gibson which, little 
as I knew it, was already, with relentless footSlep, 
making its swift and implacable approach. For six 
months, counting from the day when he had first 
made himself known to me and outraged my sensi¬ 
bilities with the Story of Professor Salt, scarcely a 
week had passed without our meeting in the smok¬ 
ing-room. And on every occasion, save for that 
brief period when he had driven his pen so furi¬ 
ously at the corner writing-table, he had treated me 
to examples from his fantaStic repertoire of 
ingenious, improbable, and mutually contradictory 
anecdotes. If at firSt I had been tempted to resent 
the assaults which he thus conducted on a fellow 
member’s credulity, if I had even let my mind toy 
with the thought of revenge, I had yet in a sur¬ 
prisingly short time come to find myself more and 
more dependent on the entertainment which he was 
undoubtedly affording me. The sombre smoking- 
room, which for so many years had represented for 
me at the bed a species of temporary euthanasia, 
and at the word the very home and headquarters of 
oppressive boredom, had suddenly developed in an 

229 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 

astonishing way into the moSt amusing place in 
London. 

Truly he was an extraordinary man, and this 
was a no less extraordinary situation. 

And so we come to the day when, entering the 
hall of the Club through the double swing-doors, I 
saw Gibson’s back silhouetted againSt the brightly 
lit notice board, to which the names of the candi¬ 
dates for the next election had been pinned. I hung 
up my hat in the cloakroom, washed my hands— 
for the lure of free soap and towels is one that it is 
hard to resiSt—and then Strolled out into the hall 
again. Gibson was Still Standing immovable, 
absorbed apparently in the contents of the board. 

“ Hullo,” I said, coming up behind him. 
“ Have you spotted a friend there ? ” 

He turned round with a Start, showing me a face 
drawn and grey with the Stress of some emotion. 

“ A friend ? ” he repeated, in a voice which I 
shall never forget. And then he raised his hand 
and pointed to a name on the typewritten liSt. 

“ Look there,” he said, the tip of his long fore¬ 
finger trembling againSt the paper. “ And then 
tell me if you Still think we won the war! ” 

I peered where I was diredted, wondering as I 
did so what evidence of Great Britain’s defeat I 

230 


STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF GIBSON 

could expedl to find in this Grange quarter; but 
the name which I saw was moSt certainly not that 
of a German. 

“ Why,” I exclaimed, “ what on earth is wrong 
with Mr. Leamington Dunn ? ” 

Gibson let his arm fall to his side, and gazed at 
me in astonishment. 

“ You call yourself an author,” he said, “ and 
yet you can ask me that! ” 

Perhaps it was Stupid of me, but I was Still 
searching for some clue connected with his previous 
Statement. 

“ Is he a war correspondent, then ? ” I 
asked. 

“ Worse than that,” said Gibson. “ Far worse. 
I tell you that man, who has the impertinence to 
submit his name for election to one of the oldeSt 
and leaSt disreputable clubs in England, is nothing 
more nor less than a well-known, a notorious 
Literary Agent.” 

He paused, as though awaiting the look of 
horror which muSt inevitably appear on my face 
at the receipt of this intelligence. But, unfortu¬ 
nately, he paused in vain. 

“ Of course,” I said. “ I remember the name 
perfedlly now you remind me. But I never heard 
anything againSl him before. Do you mean to say 

231 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


that there’s any real reason why he shouldn’t be 
elected ? ” 

“ Reason! ” repeated Gibson, cabling his eyes 
up to the ceiling. “ I tell the man that a literary 
agent is putting up for his club, and he asks me if 
there’s any reason why he shouldn’t get in. Why,” 
he added, dropping the third person and bringing 
his eyes down again, “ in heaven’s name, what 
other reason do you want ? ” 

“ Well, but hang it all,” I said, “ why shouldn't 
a literary agent be elected if he wants to ? Of 
course I know that publishers don’t like them, but 
if it comes to that, clergymen don’t like free¬ 
thinkers, and cricketers don’t like golfers. And 
yet we manage to find room for all of these here 
without any particular trouble that I’ve ever 
noticed. After all, people don’t belong to a club 
so as to have rows with their professional enemies. 
They do it because ...” 

And here my closely reasoned argument broke 
off. For the fa£t is that if one is really driven to it, 
it is jolly hard to say why people do belong to clubs 
—except in satisfaction of the inCtinCt which makes 
men ( and sheep) imitate one another. 

“ Yes, yes,” said Gibson, taking advantage of 
my pause. “ I know all that. But you’ve got to 
draw the line somewhere. You can’t say that a 

232 


STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF GIBSON 


murderer, for instance, is a fit candidate for elec¬ 
tion, ju£t because there’s a rule that the Club isn’t 
to be used for business purposes.” 

“ But a literary agent isn’t the same as a mur¬ 
derer,” I protected. 

“ No,” said Gibson forcibly. “ He’s a great 
deal worse.” 

“ Oh, come, I say-” I began. But before 

I could develop my remonstrance any further he 
gripped my arm. 

“ Come into the smoking-room,” he said, “ and 
let me tell you something about this Mr. Leaming¬ 
ton Dunn. And when I’ve put the fa<5ts before 
you, perhaps you’ll let me know whether you Still 
think he ought to be eleSled.” 

I suppose that I ought to have suspected the 
word “ faSfs ” when used by such an accomplished 
liar as Gibson, but the earneStness of his tone no 
less than the pressure of his hand made it impossible 
for me to decline. In another minute we were back 
once more in our old, familiar seats. 

* * * * * * 

Now, then (said Gibson). Ju£l oblige me by 
listening to this. 

About fifteen or twenty years ago, when I had 
ju£l come down from the University and was won¬ 
dering what on earth I was to do next, the Muses 

233 



ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


who, no less than Satan, habitually lie in wait for 
those who haven’t enough to do, egged me on to 
write a Novel. There is nothing unusual about my 
tory so far, for there is no doubt that ninety-nine 
persons in this country out of every hundred have, 
at one time or another, whether secretly or publicly, 
practised this vice. But this is where I pass at 
once from the majority to the minority. I sent the 
manuscript to a publisher, and within a fortnight it 
was accepted. In consideration of a cash payment 
of twenty-five pounds, I disposed of all rights in the 
work in every country inside or outside the Berne 
Convention, including even the right to set any 
portion or portions of it to music. 

It never occurred to me that I hadn’t struck an 
entirely satisfactory bargain. All I saw at the 
moment was that if I wrote twelve such novels a 
year—and in the ardour of my youth I saw nothing 
impracticable in this—then I should be provided 
with a teady annual income of three hundred 
pounds; which would, in those days, enable me to 
lead a very comfortable bachelor exigence. My 
future and my career seemed, in fact, assured. 

But the Serpent was not long in entering my 
Eden. For some inexplicable reason, connected 
possibly with a certain brutality in my hero and a 
corresponding imbecility in my heroine, the novel 

234 


STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF GIBSON 


was a success. In three months it had gone into 
no less than twice as many impressions. It was 
advertised to appear serially in a low-class Sunday 
newspaper. A well-known hack playwright rushed 
a dramatic version on to the boards. In short, I 
seemed to have blundered accidentally into the 
Halls of Fame. 

Yet even so, incredible as it may appear to a 
writer like yourself, I £lill saw nothing wrong in the 
scale of remuneration that I had accepted. I was 
young, careless, and impradlical. The name which 
I had made for myself seemed worth far more than 
mere paltry dross. I have no doubt that I should 
have gone on selling my books for twenty-five 
pounds to this very day but for the appearance on 
the scene of the serpent that I have mentioned. 

He arrived not singly, but in battalions. Every 
morning my breakfast table was covered with 
letters from literary agents. They wrote from Bed¬ 
ford Street, from Henrietta Street, from Bristol and 
Newcastle-on-Tyne, and finally even from New 
York and Boston. And one and all expressed their 
passionate desire to make my fortune. I began to 
wonder whether, after all, there might not be 
something in it. 

And in this new and speculative mood I at 
length decided to ask the opinion of a brother 

235 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


author—the only one that I knew. His name was 
Wilkinson, and he made his living by writing 
what are, I believe, known as “ cloak and sword ” 
Glories. You know the kind of thing. Archaic 
dialogue and the surprising irruption in disguise of 
Queen Elizabeth or the Young Pretender. 

“ An agent ? ” said Wilkinson, when I put the 
point to him. “ Of course you ought to have an 
agent. All publishers are thieves; they don’t 
mean to be, very often, but they can’t help it. 
Why, my man has doubled my royalty in the lat 
five years. He’s paid for himself over and over 
again.” 

This sounded attractive. 

“ Then whom would you advise me to go to ? ” 
I asked. “ I’ve had letters from dozens of them, 
but how am I to tell which is the bet ? ” 

“ There’s only one agent,” said Wilkinson, 
“ that I can really swear you can trut. Leamington 
Dunn is his name. He’s acted for me from the 

i 

very beginning, and he’s as traight as they’re made. 
If you like, I’ll ring him up and tell him you’re 
coming to see him.” 

“ That would be very good of you,” I replied 
gratefully. “ Are you sure you don’t mind sharing 
him with me ? ” 

Wilkinson laughed conceitedly. 

236 


STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF GIBSON 

“ My dear Gibson,” he said, “ you’ll pardon my 
saying so, but you and I are scarcely competing in 
the same market. I should think that I had won 
my literary spurs when you were £till in your cradle. 
I am only too glad to be of service to a beginner.” 

I thanked him humbly, and there and then he 
rang Mr. Dunn up. An appointment was fixed for 
me for the following day, and I returned to my 
rooms to dream of the fortune which was perhaps 
now awaiting me. 

The next day I found my way to Leamington 
Dunn’s office. I had prepared myself to be kept 
waiting, but to my pleasure and surprise I was 
shown straight in to him. He rose at once from his 
desk and wrung my hand. 

“ My dear sir,” he said, “ this is indeed a 
pleasure. Any friend of Mr. Wilkinson’s comes, 
of course, with the £lronge£t recommendation, but 
in your case I should have been proud to handle 
your work without any such formality. Sit down, 
won’t you, and let me offer you a cigar.” 

“ It is very good of you,” I murmured. “ I had 
no idea that you knew anything about my work.” 

“ You see in me,” said Mr. Dunn, “ one of your 
greatest admirers. Yes, I think I may say that I 
was almost the fir£t, if not the fir£t, man to appre¬ 
ciate your writings in this country.” 

237 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


This seemed to me to be going rather far. But 
flattery is always sweet, and as I lit my cigar I 
bowed and smirked. 

“ You’ll forgive my saying so,” pursued Mr. 
Dunn, “ but it comes as rather a surprise to me to 
find that you are such a young man. I had always 
imagined—but there, there; genius knows no age.” 

I felt a little uncomfortable in this shower-bath 
of praise, but I endeavoured to laugh it off*. 

“ I certainly don’t lay claim to any genius, Mr. 
Dunn,” I said. “ I have been very fortunate in 
satisfying the public; that is all.” 

He caSt his eyes up to heaven, overcome, appar¬ 
ently, with my modesty. 

“ And your English,” he exclaimed. “ So 
fluent; so idiomatic. You mud excuse me again 
if I say that I am astonished.” 

I couldn’t for the life of me see what there was to 
be aStonished at in my English. After all, I had 
had a quite reasonably good upbringing. So, 
with another smirk, I let this compliment pass. 

“ And now suppose we come to business,” I 
suggested. 

“ Certainly; certainly,” he said. “ I take it that 
you wish me to watch your interests in connexion 
with a new play, eh ? Well, though I say it myself, 
you couldn’t have come to a better man.” 

238 


STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF GIBSON 


“ A play ? ” I repeated, feeling rather puzzled. 
“ No, no. It’s a novel that I want to sell.” 

“ A novel ? ” said Mr. Dunn. “ I never knew 
that you wrote novels. Well, well, never mind. 
Whatever it is, I’ve no doubt that we shall find a 
market for it. Does it deal with Norway ? ” 

“ No,” I said, more mystified than ever. “ The 
scene is laid chiefly at Brighton.” 

“ Well, there’s nothing like striking out a new 
line,” said Mr. Dunn. “ But you mustn’t be dis¬ 
appointed if you find some of the public complain¬ 
ing that it isn’t Norwegian.” 

“ But dash it all,” I protected. “ Why on earth 
should it be ? I’ve never been in Norway in my 
life.” 

“ What ? ” shouted Mr. Leamington Dunn, 
starting up. “ But aren’t you Mr. Ibsen ? ” 

“ Certainly not,” I said. “ My name is Gibson. 
Henry Gibson. I am the author of Ursula WagHaff^ 
which is now in its sixth impression.” 

“ ‘ Henry Gibson,’ ” repeated the agent, sinking 
back into his chair. “ I understood that Mr. 
Wilkinson had said ‘ Henrik Ibsen.’ I’m very 
sorry, sir, but I fear that I have been addressing you 
under a misapprehension. I shall complain to my 
secretary about this. Meanwhile, if you will leave 
your real name and address, I’ll—well, I’ll write to 

239 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


you. But I’m afraid that my hands are very full 
ju£l at present, and, frankly, I very much doubt 
whether I could make anything of your work if it is 
on the lines of Ursula WagSlaff. After all, I have a 
certain reputation with publishers and editors to 
maintain; and besides, there are my other clients 
to be considered. Ju£t touch the bell by the door 
as you go out, and my secretary will give you your 
hat.” 

There is no need to tell you with what words from 
me our interview then terminated. Suffice it to say 
that they were both pithy and pointed. Within 
three minutes I had left Mr. Leamington Dunn’s 
office for good and all, and for nearly twenty years 
I have, out of pure good nature, kept silence on the 
subject of his incredible mistake. But I can keep 
silence no longer. If a man with such an incident 
in his pa£l is to submit himself for eledlion to a club 
like the Caviare, then the time has come for me to 
speak. And having told you what I have, I am 
confident that you, as a trustee for the traditions of 
European literature, will see that for Leamington 
Dunn nothing short of the blackest of blackballs is 
either thinkable or possible. 

****** 

I had likened to this recital with growing amaze¬ 
ment, for, in spite of everything, I had been con- 

240 


STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF GIBSON 


vinced at the beginning of it that at la£t Gibson was 
about to confine himself to the truth. But what on 
earth was I to make of such a farrago of nonsense ? 
Or even if I allowed for the grossest kind of exag¬ 
geration, and accepted the suggestion at the bottom 
of it all that Mr. Dunn was better acquainted with 
business than with literature, what real reason was 
this why I should take the very serious £tep of 
recording my vote against him ? 

“ Look here, Gibson,” I said. “ Before you ask 
me to blackball a man about whom I really know 
nothing except his name, I think I am entitled to 
put a question to you. Can you look me in the face 
and tell me that this £torv which I have ju£t heard is 
true ? ” 

“ True ? ” said Gibson. “ Of course it’s true. 

At lea£t-” He checked himself, and before 

my scrutiny his eyes shifted and then dropped. 
“ You muSln’t ask me that,” he broke out. “ It 
isn't fair. I swear I meant to tell you the truth 
when I began ju£t now. I know I’m sometimes 
not as accurate as I ought to be, but you’ve always 

been so sympathetic before, and-1 cant 

explain,” he added sullenly. “ But I’ll tell you this. 
If Leamington Dunn is elected to this Club, then 
I shall have to leave it. You can choose between us. 
Only heaven knows that if a friend of mine asked 

241 R 




ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


me to blackball a fellow, I shouldn’t ask him if he 
were speaking the truth. I should do it.” 

Perhaps you can understand how uncomfortable 
this reference to friendship made me feel. But 
what could I say ? What could I do ? This 
sudden transference of Gibson’s powers of inven¬ 
tion from his imaginary pa£t and his imaginary 
acquaintances to a real and actual man put me in the 
moSt impossible position. I wondered for the firSt 
time whether I had been doing wrong all this while 
to let him exercise his dangerous gift without any 
kind of protect. Oughtn’t I to have foreseen that 
sooner or later his obviously unbalanced mind 
would move juSt a Step too far, and let me in for 
some such hopeless situation as this ? 

“ Listen to me,” I said, at laSt breaking into the 
painful silence. “ If you will give me your real 
reasons for keeping this Leamington Dunn out of 
the Club, and if I think they’re good enough, then 
I’ll come up from the country next week and vote 
againSt him with the greatest pleasure on earth. 
But if you won’t do this, then I’ll Stay where I am, 
and if he’s elected, then at lea£t you’ll know that 
I’ve done nothing to help him.” 

Twice, three times, Gibson opened his mouth as 
if he were on the point of making a clean breaSt of it. 
And then, with a violent twitch, he shook his head. 

242 


STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF GIBSON 


“ I can't tell you,” he said in a low voice. “ I 
can’t tell you.” And with these words he got 
straight up out of his chair, and without looking at 
me again he left the room. 

For the beSt part of another hour I sat where I 
was, gazing thoughtfully at the doors through 
which he had vanished, recalling to myself one by 
one all the stages of our six months’ acquaintance¬ 
ship, reminding myself in detail of the astounding 
series of adventures which he had confided to me, 
and asking myself again and again how else I could 
have dealt with this lateSt and moSt unmanageable 
development. And each time as I reached this 
final problem, Gibson’s words, spoken earlier 
during the same afternoon, seemed to echo in my 
ears. “ I swear” he had said, “ I swear I meant 
to tell you the truth when I began.” 

If this were indeed the case, if what I had come to 
regard as mere harmless eccentricity were in fa£t 
some curious mental twiSt, which made him 
incapable of distinguishing truth from falsehood— 
what then ? London, I knew, was full of profes¬ 
sional gentlemen who, for three guineas or more, 
would resolve any such complex, or analyse and so 
charm away any such freak of the brain. Why, in 
these days they were even curing homicidal 
maniacs by means of inoculation. If I could induce 

243 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


Gibson to place himself in one of these persons’ 

hands-But no, as I tried to pidture this I 

recognized at once the impossibility of it. 

And besides, how, with my knowledge of Gib¬ 
son’s methods, could I be certain that even that 
heartbroken cry, which had seemed to come from 
his very soul, had not been his final and moSt 
successful attempt at pulling my leg ? 

I knocked out my pipe, shrugged my shoulders, 
and, colledting my hat from the cloakroom, pass i 
out into the street. 

The next day, accompanied by my family and my 
dog, I went down to the country, and for nearly a 
month gave myself up to solid work in the morn¬ 
ings and solid golf in the afternoons, to solid 
vacuity in the evenings, and solid sleep at night. 
London—that strange place where one can never 
for a moment sit on the ground, and where one dare 
not go out for even five minutes without a pocketful 
of loose change—sank back into as remote a per- 
spedtive as the planet Mars. The Caviare Club 
became simply a clumsy handwriting which re- 
diredted my letters. And as for Henry Gibson, 
he was, for the time being, scarcely more than a 
wraith—inexplicable and mysterious as ever, but 
in the present circumstances no longer to be taken 

244 



STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF GIBSON 


with more than the very minimum of seriousness. 
Once or twice, indeed, the idea did pass through my 
mind of sending him, perhaps, a picture postcard, 
and asking him for news of himself, with implicit 
reference to Mr. Leamington Dunn. But each 
time I put it off. The weather was too good to 
waSte any more time indoors than was absolutely 
necessary for the purpose of earning my daily 
bread. 

And so the weeks slipped by, and at laSt one 
morning, that London from whose influence I 
thought I had escaped, became suddenly aware of 
my absence, and reaching out a careless, yet irre¬ 
sistible tentacle, swept me back into its maw. An 
American publisher had chosen the middle of my 
summer holiday to arrive in England; there would 
be much business (I hoped) to discuss with him; 
and as my house was shut up, the only thing to do 
was to telegraph for a room at the Caviare. I forced 
my reludtant neck once again into a Stiff collar, 
packed a suitcase, and with many an ungenerous 
groan at the hardships of an author’s life, took my 
departure for Waterloo. 

At the Club all was peace and calm. The well- 
remembered commissionaire ran out and helped 
me in with my luggage; the old, indefinable smell 
of soap and cigarettes filled the hall; and—yes, the 

245 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


porter had received my telegram and a bedroom had 
been reserved. 

“ I’ve given you Mr. Gibson’s old room, sir,” 
he said. 

“ What ? ” I exclaimed. “ Has Mr. Gibson 
moved, then ? ” 

“ Not moved, sir,” said the porter. “ He’s left.” 

“ Left?” I repeated, my heart suddenly sink¬ 
ing- 

“ Yes, sir. Quite a surprise it was to us after all 
this time. He went off juSt a fortnight ago, sir. 
The same day as the laSt election.” 

It was true, then. Gibson had carried out his 
threat. 

“ Did he leave his address ? ” I asked. 

“ No, sir,” said the porter. “ He said he was 
probably going abroad, and he’d write and give it 
me later.” 

“ Oh,” I said. “ Thanks.” And I hurried 
across to the green baize notice-board. Yes, there 
it was. Second on the liSt of newly eledted mem¬ 
bers I read the sinister name of Mr. Leamington 
Dunn. 

And then a horrid, cold thought came creeping 
into my mind. What if Gibson, dreading the 
nameless persecution from which I had declined to 
assist in saving him, had sought his own life ? 

246 


STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF GIBSON 


What if my miStruStful insistence on his telling me 
the truth had left me to walk the reSt of my days a 
murderer in the sight of heaven ? With a sudden 
decision I dashed upStairs, three Steps at a time, 
to the secretary’s office. 

“ Good afternoon, Mr. Bassett,” I said. “ I’m 
rather interested in one of the names on the new 
liSt of members. I wonder if there would be any 
objeStion to your telling me how the voting went 
for Mr. Leamington Dunn ? ” 

“ Leamington Dunn ? ” said the secretary. 
“Certainly. I’ll tell you at once.” He turned to a 
leather book on his table. “ Yes,” he went on. 
“ I thought so. A hundred and thirty-eight white 
balls and—yes, one black ball.” 

“ Thank you,” I murmured, taking out my 
handkerchief and wiping my brow. Whatever 
Gibson’s fate might be, the shadow of guilt had 
passed away from me. By no possible means could 
my one vote have affe&ed such an overwhelming 
result. 

“ So you know Mr. Dunn, do you ? ” asked Mr. 
Bassett, as he put his book away again.i 

“ Well, no,” I Stammered. “ At leaSt, not 
exaSlly. That is ... ” And at this moment, as I 
floundered and hesitated, a page-boy came into the 


room. 


247 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


“ Excuse me, sir,” he said, addressing Mr. 
Bassett. “ But could you speak to a gentleman for 
a minute ? ” 

“ Eh ? ” snapped the secretary, looking up. 
“ What gentleman ? Why can’t you tell me his 
name ? ” 

“ He’s a new gentleman,” said the boy sulkily. 
“ It sounded like Dunn.” 

“ Dunn ? ” repeated Mr. Bassett, glancing at 
me. “ Of course; of course. Ask him to come 
in at once.” 

I moved hastily towards the door, but before I 
could reach it the new member had shot into the 
room. His excitement was obvious and contagious, 
and I noticed that in one hand he was flourishing 
a copy of the printed lift of members. 

“ G’d-afternoon,” he panted. “ My name’s 
Leamington Dunn. Look here, Mr. Bassett, you 
muft forgive my impatience, but I’ve juft found in 
this lift here the name of a man that I’ve been 
looking for for nearly three years. Why he should 
have hidden himself away like this, heaven alone 
knows. But it’s of the utmoft importance, for his 
sake as well as mine, that I should get into touch 
with him at once. I’ve juft been speaking to the 
porter downftairs, and he tells me he’s gone off and 
left no address. If you can possibly suggeft any 

248 


STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF GIBSON 


means by which I can discover where he is, I shall 

be mosl deeply indebted to you.” 

He broke off, Still panting, and I saw Mr. 

Bassett eyeing him cautiously. Then he asked: 

“ And what is this member’s name, Mr. Dunn?” 

“ I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Dunn. “ His 

name’s Gibson. Henry Gibson.” 

I remained rooted to the spot, while once again 

Mr. Bassett seemed to be considering his answer. 

At laSt he shook his head. 

“ I’m afraid I can’t help you, sir,” he said. 

“ Mr. Gibson had lived here for a number of years. 

A fortnight or so ago he gave up his room, but if he 

didn’t tell the porter where he was going, then he 

certainly never told me.” He hesitated for a 

moment, and then added: “ But perhaps Mr. 

Mackail here can help you. I believe he knew Mr. 

Gibson quite well.” 

Mr. Dunn turned on me at once. 

“ Can you ? ” he entreated. “ Did he ever tell 

vou where he was off to ? ” 

* 

It was my turn to shake my head. 

“ No,” I said. “ But perhaps-Well, look 

here, would you mind coming downstairs for a 
minute ? Gibson told me a great deal at one time 
and another, and it’s juSt possible that, if you don’t 
mind answering a few questions firSt, I might be 

249 



ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


able to give you some kind of clue. But, frankly, 
I rather doubt it.” 

“ I’ll answer anything you like to ask,” said Mr. 
Dunn, with the utmost openness. “ Gibson has 
treated me in the mod extraordinary way, but I’ve 
nothing to hide from him or anyone else. Shall we 
come, then ? ” 

I followed him down the flairs, and in a couple 
of minutes I was ensconced once more in my 
favourite chair, while Leamington Dunn recovered 
his breath in the seat which had so long been 
associated in my mind with Gibson. 

“ Now, then,” I began, “ I think I ought to tell 
you that about a month ago, when your name came 
up here for ele&ion, Gibson expressed the moSt 
extraordinary alarm at the prospeft of meeting you. 
Before I say anything more, therefore, I mud, in 
justice to my absent friend, ask if he had any real 
cause to fear anything from such an encounter. I 
have my own reasons for doubting whether his 
feelings were based on any substantial grounds, 
but I should appreciate frankness from you over 
this matter very much indeed.” 

“ My dear sir,” replied Mr. Leamington Dunn, 
“ your caution does you credit, and in return I will 
tell you everything that I know. In the firSl place, 
have you any idea who Gibson really was ? ” 

250 


STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF GIBSON 


“ Who he was ? ” I echoed. “ Do you mean 
what he did ? ” 

“ No,” said the agent. “ Who he was.” He 
paused for a second, and then added: “ Have you 
ever heard of Minnie Baker Sanderson ? ” [This 
wasn’t the real name, but there are, as you will see, 
reasons why I should alter it.] 

“ Have I ever heard of Hall Caine ? ” I retorted. 
“ Why, of course I have. I should think I’ve 
avoided more short stories by that lady than by any 
other writer, dead or living. They seemed to have 
dropped off lately, but one usedn’t to be able to 
open a magazine in the whole of England or 
America without tripping over an example of her 
work. Heard of her ? I should think I had.” 

“ Well,” said Mr. Dunn. “ Minnie Baker 
Sanderson’s real name was—Henry Gibson.” 

“ What ? ” I exclaimed, Parting back. 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Dunn quietly. “ I was his 
agent, so I ought to know. And up to three years 
ago I had placed well over five thousand of his short 
Glories. He was an odd sort of devil—always wrote 
more or less with his tongue in his cheek, but never 
so that more than one in a million would notice it. 
Frankly, the £tuff was tripe. But what we agents 
call the * stenographer and sales-girl class ’ simply 
ate it. And as far as the magazine editors were 

251 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


concerned it was impossible for him to get ahead of 
his output. He mud have been making quite 
twenty thousand pounds a year. 

“ I don’t mind telling you that more than once 
I begged him not to work so fa£t. ‘ It isn’t that 
your £tuff is falling off,’ I said, and this was true 
enough; ‘ but no man can write as hard as you’re 
doing without letting himself in for a breakdown. 
Believe me,’ I said, ‘ I’ve had some experience, and 
I ought to know.’ But Gibson simply wouldn’t 
listen to me. He said he had no earthly kind of 
interest apart from his work, and if ever he tried to 
take a holiday he could hear his own brain buzzing 
round, and it drove him mad. I suppose I ought 
to have been warned by this, but the fadt is that, in 
spite of everything, there was something about the 
man that made one feel that perhaps after all where 
he was concerned the ordinary rules didn’t apply. 
I wonder if you follow what I mean ? ” 

I nodded. 

“ Yes,” I said. “ Go on.” 

“ Well,” continued Mr. Dunn, “ things had 
gone on like this for years, and I was making a 
steady income out of managing Gibson’s business 
for him, when suddenly one day I had a call from 
the editor of the Pantological Magazine . 

Look here, Mr. Dunn,’ he said, handing me 

252 


STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF GIBSON 

a manuscript. ‘ What does Miss Sanderson mean 
by sending us a Sfory like this ? Has she gone 
mad, or what is it ? ’ 

“ I didn’t care to confess that I had passed a 
manuscript on without reading it myself, though in 
Gibson’s case I’m afraid I had been guilty of this 
more than once. 

Why, what’s wrong with it ? ’ I asked. 

Wrong ? ’ shouted the editor. ‘ You take it 
home and read it, and if it doesn’t drive you into 
fifteen thousand blue fits, I’ll eat my hat.’ 

“ He added some more about people trying to 
trade on their reputations and so on, and finally he 
left. I didn’t wait to go home before reading that 
Slory; I read it at once. And of all the amazing, 
astonishing, infernal bits of gibberish I’ve ever 
Struck, this one juSt about took the bun. Time and 
again I thought I was going to catch the drift of it, 
but at one moment the scene was up in a balloon 
and at the next it was down in a submarine. On the 
flrSt page the heroine was called Miranda, on the 
second she was called firSt Gwendolen and then 
Sally, and after this she never kept the same name 
for a single paragraph. And the men, too. You 
never knew what they were going to be or who was 
going to butt in next. The thing was indescribable. 
And yet any one sentence that you might care to 

2 53 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


pick out not only made perfeCl sense by itself, 
but had every mark of having been extrafted from a 
genuine short £lory. It was the way everything 
was mixed up that drove me silly. 

“ FirCt of all I thought that Gibson mu£t have 
been trying to be funny, and then I wondered if it 
could be something to do with his typist. But at 
this moment my secretary came into the room with 
a bundle of manuscripts. 

“ ‘ These are all from Miss Sanderson,’ she said. 
(At Gibson’s request we kept the secret of his 
identity even inside the office.) ‘ But I wish you’d 
have a look at them, Mr. Dunn. For either there’s 
something very odd about them or else I ought to 
see a do&or.’ 

“ I snatched them up at once. A glance was 
enough to show me that compared with these 
extraordinary productions the Ctory that I had juCt 
read was plain English. They were all made up of 
real words; they were even broken up into para¬ 
graphs; but not a single sentence from beginning 
to end possessed so much as a glimmering of 
sense. I realized at once that the breakdown which 
I had at fir£t feared, and then come to laugh at, muCt 
have turned up at la£t, and that at that moment my 
unfortunate client was no better than a raving 
lunatic.” 


254 


STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF GIBSON 


Mr. Dunn paused for an inStant, and then 
resumed. 

“ Naturally,” he said, “ I made every effort to 
get in touch with Gibson at once. I wrote off to 
his address there and then, and begged him to let 
me see him as soon as possible. For six days I 
waited for an answer, and on the seventh my note 
came back through the dead-letter office. I went 
to his rooms, but he had vanished without a trace. 
Luckily I had so much of his work in my office that 
I w'as able to fill almoSt all his contrails without any 
great difficulty. But from that moment to this I 
have never set eyes on him, and except for one 
extraordinary communication which I received 
about a year after his disappearance, he might as 
far as I was concerned have been dead. All this 
time Eve had a very large account of his which 
Fve been quite unable to pay; and now, it seems, 
I’ve Stumbled on his track at laSt only to find that 
I’ve loSt him once again. Unless you can help me, 
I really don’t see what on earth I can do.” 

“ Wait a minute,” I said, determined to probe 
this astonishing Story to the bottom. “ You said 
that he did write to you once after his breakdown. 
What did he say ? ” 

“ You’ll think I’m raving myself when I tell 
you,” said Mr. Dunn. “ But he wrote as if he 


255 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


were going in the moSt mortal fear of me. He 
begged me to cease my persecution, which he said 
was driving him into the grave; and then he 
ended up by saying that if I would meet him in the 
Whispering Gallery at St. Paul’s, wearing a green 
suit with yellow buttons and a false nose, he would 
consent to dictate some more stories to me in 
Hebrew. He mentioned no time and no date, 
but in any case I couldn’t have dreamt of complying 
with such a suggestion. The man muSt have been 
as mad as a March hare. And now, if you have 
anything at all to tell me, I beg that you will do so 
at once.” 

“ Mr. Dunn,” I replied, “ your frankness invites 
my confidence, and it shall have it. I am convinced 
by all you say that this unfortunate man has nothing 
to fear and much to gain by letting you know where 
he is. I will tell you at once everything that I 
know about him.” 

And I did. We sat there together until nearly 
dinner-time, while I pieced together my £lory of all 
that I had heard from Gibson during those six 
extraordinary months. Mr. Dunn listened in 
perfeCt silence and with the closeSt attention, and 
when at laSt I finished, he remained gazing reflect¬ 
ively out of the window for several minutes. Then 
he said: “It seems clear to me that although 

256 


STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF GIBSON 


Gibson is Still far from normal, he muSt be con¬ 
siderably better than he was. These stories which he 
told you, and your account of the time when he wrote 
all that Stuff and then threw it into the fire, seem 
to show that the creative impulse is Still there.” 

“ Oh, yes,” I replied. “ I don’t think there’s 
very much doubt about that.” 

“ It seems a pity that they should be waited,” 
said Mr. Dunn, Still Glaring through the window. 

Again I agreed. 

“ If you’d care to write some of them down,” 
he added, fixing me suddenly with his eye, “ I 
could probably get you a very good price for them.” 

“ Oh, no,” I said. “ I couldn’t possibly do that. 
It’s a matter of opinion, I know, but if you’ll 
forgive my saying so, I should hardly feel that I was 
playing the game.” 

“ All right,” said Mr. Dunn, rising to his feet. 
“ Don’t decide now. Think it over. And if by 
any chance you should hear from Gibson, you’ll let 
me know where he is ? ” 

“ Certainly,” I replied. “ That is, unless he 
definitely asks me not to.” 

“ Oh, quite,” said Mr. Dunn. “ That is, of 
course, understood.” 

He gave me a friendly smile, and made his way 
out of the smoking-room. 

257 


s 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 

And thus, for nearly three more months, the 
matter reeled. I saw Mr. Dunn many times during 
my visits to the Caviare, and we generally spoke 
a word or two when we met. But beyond his 
regular question of “ Any news ? ” he made no 
further reference to the subject which was £till 
probably exercising his mind quite as much as my 
own. And if he were £lill hoping that one day my 
greed for gold would make me change my mind 
about publishing these Tales from Gibson, he made 
no mention of this either. Certainly, so far as this 
mild-mannered and agreeable gentleman was con¬ 
cerned, justification was completely lacking for 
Gibson’s extravagant Statement that a literary 
agent is a great deal worse than a murderer. In the 
calm atmosphere of the Club smoking-room our 
meetings blossomed gradually into a kind of easy¬ 
going friendship, yet I know that Leamington Dunn 
would be the firSt to admit that so far as enter¬ 
tainment and amusement went he could never hope 
to take the place of my vanished maniac. Not twice 
in a lifetime does one come across a Henry Gibson. 

And so we pass on to the final incident in the 
Gibson Saga, which will also contain my vindica¬ 
tion for laying these Tales before the public. 

For this, there can be no doubt, a new chapter 
will be required. 


258 


X 

GIBSON’S LAST WORDS 

I ONLY stayed up at the Caviare for two more 
nights after that firSt meeting with Leaming¬ 
ton Dunn, and then, having dealt with all the 
business which had called me to London, I went 
back again at once to my family and my dog. But 
the weather down in the country seemed to have 
become demoralized by my absence. Day after 
day it rained and it blew; the house which we had 
taken grew smaller and smaller; the view of the 
eighteenth green, which during the firSt fine weeks 
had furnished me with such endless inspiration for 
my work, was in its present water-logged condition 
producing a strain of morbidity in my hero and 
heroine; and finally we decided that we could 
Stand it no longer. The boxes were pulled out 
from under the beds; the carrier was ordered to 
collect the bath, the cot, the perambulator, and the 
weighing machine with which, as a married man, 
I always travel; I waded over to the club-house and 
removed our golf-bags; largesse was distributed 

259 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


copiously in all directions; and the whole family, 
never omitting the dog Rufus, returned again to 
our house in Chelsea. 

Back in our home we all began to pick up at 
once. Even my hero and heroine seemed to benefit 
from the change and to look on life with healthier 
and more courageous eyes. Once more the 
Caviare knew my familiar presence, and even my 
continued uncertainty as to Gibson’s fate turned 
gradually into a thing of use and custom. I missed 
him till, I would have given much to know 
where he was and what he was doing, but the pang 
of our original parting no longer tood between me 
and my pleasure in life. 

“ Any news ? ” Mr. Leamington Dunn would 
till ask, whenever he saw me. “ No,” I would 
reply, shaking my head. “ Not yet.” And 
presently even this faint expression of hope dis¬ 
appeared. “ No,” I would say. “ None.” 


And so September and October passed on their 
way. Earlier and earlier the heavy curtains in the 
Caviare smoking-room were drawn together, 
shutting out the raw and mity evenings. It would 
take something more than a mere muffin to attract 
me to my Club on afternoons like these, and for 

260 


GIBSON’S LAST WORDS 


over a fortnight the claims of my own fireside had 
held undisputed sway. 

Then one morning a dim, reddish objedt 
appeared through the gloom of the November sky. 
By midday it had grown so bright that it was 
adlually cabling faint shadows on the wall opposite 
my Study window. By two o’clock it was im¬ 
possible to look at it diredtly without injury to the 
eyes. “ By Jove,” I said, “ I mud go out for a 
walk at once before the beastly thing sets.” 

And at half-paSt four, exhausted but virtuous 
after my tramp, I mounted once more the dteps of 
the Caviare Club. 

I had juSt made my usual, awkward acknow¬ 
ledgment to the commissionaire’s salute, when the 
porter came running out of his box. 

“ This only came in an hour ago, sir,” he said, 
handing me a long envelope. “ I was juSt going to 
forward it on to you. 

“ Thanks,” I said, glancing at the typewritten 
superscription. And then—I really don’t know 
why, unless the disturbing augury of the sun’s re¬ 
appearance had anything to do with it—an idea, 
which in an infant had grown to a modi positive 
convidtion, seized possession of my mind. With 
another quick look at the American Stamp, cancelled 
by the waving lines of the Santa Barbara postmark, 

261 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


I tore the envelope open and snatched from it 
twenty or thirty sheets of flimsy paper. With 
trembling fingers I turned hastily to the final page. 
And there at laSt I saw the name which that sudden, 
intuitive flash had told me that I should find. 

“ Tours sincerely ,” I read, “ Henry Gibson .” 
Without leaving the hall, without even un¬ 
buttoning my overcoat, I sat down on the leather 
seat opposite the tape-machine, and began at once 
at the beginning. 

vjv Vp vj» 7p v|» 

Dear D. M. (Gibson had written), 

We live in strange times. Who would have 
thought, after more than three years during which 
I never left our Club except for an hour’s walk 
before breakfast or after dark, that I should 
suddenly find myself transported across five thous¬ 
and miles of water and railroad to end my days on 
foreign soil ? Nevertheless, this is what has 
happened. Destiny had so decided, long before the 
firSt palaeozoic trilobite had shoved its nose above 
the primeval ooze; and who am I that I should 
quarrel with the workings of Destiny ? 

I bear you no grudge for your share in bring¬ 
ing about my exile. You were the creature of cir¬ 
cumstance no less than myself; and even the arch- 

262 


GIBSON’S LAST WORDS 


villain Dunn may be supposed, by those whose 
faith can rise to such heights, to fulfil some inscrut¬ 
able and sordid purpose in the plans of the Archi¬ 
tect of the Universe. Moreover, I have now 
passed beyond his power. I can afford to laugh at 
him; to snap my fingers at his puny malevolence; 
even, sometimes, to pity him. 

When I firCt discovered that my hiding-place 
had been betrayed, I will admit that I went through 
a terrible and agonizing phase; a phase on which, 
even yet, I hesitate to look back. But no matter. 
I have passed through the fire and have emerged 
again, purified and unscathed, into a nobler and a 
wider existence; an existence whose beauties and 
capabilities I am Clill only on the very threshold of 
appreciating. 

My original idea in uprooting myself from my 
old quarters and setting sail for the United States 
was, frankly, prompted by nothing more than a 
panic-Clricken desire to put as large a portion of 
the world’s surface as possible between myself and 
my enemy. But as I Clood on the boat deck of the 
Aquitania , and the Atlantic breezes began sweeping 
the clouds and cobwebs from my brain, courage 
and confidence seemed to grow in their place, and 
I determined that, come what might, I would face 
the future like a man. I decided that I would 

263 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


follow the trail which has been blazed by Messrs. 
Walpole, Chesterton, and Drinkwater, also by 
Mesdames Asquith and Sheridan, and enter on 
arrangements for a prolonged ledture tour to every 
town and city where there was any prospedt of my 
presence being tolerated. 

The subjedt-matter of my discourses was, of 
course, of secondary importance. But it was only 
a question of minutes before I decided that the 
topic which would probably suit both me and my 
auditors beSt would be the well-worn and well- 
tried “ People Whom I Have Met.” And if by 
any mischance this should prove insufficient as an 
attradtion, then I proposed to fall back on my 
imagination for a series to be entitled “ My Six 
Months in Soviet Russia.” 

With this great decision safely off my mind, I 
came down from the boat deck, and for the next six 
days I think I may say, without undue conceit, that 
I was the life and soul of the ship’s company. My 
conjuring tricks at the Firdt Class concert were 
encored five times; I organized and led the 
cotillion at the dance on the following night; I was 
pradtically engaged to no less than three million¬ 
aire’s daughters at once; and my work as super¬ 
numerary trap-drummer to the ship’s band not 
only resulted in a record colledfion being made for 

264 


GIBSON’S LAST WORDS 


the Seamen’s Orphanages, but even secured for me 
an offer of a ten-year contrad: at a Brooklyn roof- 
garden. By the time that the bars were sealed and 
the Statue of Liberty had appeared over the horizon, 
I had the satisfaction of knowing that nothing less 
than the Carnegie Hall would contain the repu¬ 
tation which I had made for myself as a lecturer. 

I put up at the Plaza, and the morning after my 
arrival I went down town to the office of Mr. 
Herman Sparks, the well-known agent, and sent in 
my card. After a short delay, I was admitted to the 
sanftum. 

“ Good morning, Mr. Sparks,” I said. “ I am 
an English author, and I am thinking of delivering 
a series of leCtures on People Whom I Have Met 
and My Six Months in Soviet Russia. I suggest 
that you should pay me one hundred thousand 
dollars premium and twenty-five per cent, of the 
gross takings at all my readings. The newspaper, 
magazine, motion-piCture, gramophone, broad¬ 
casting, and translation rights I propose to retain 
for myself. I am ready to begin as soon as you can 
get the three-sheets printed, and am prepared to 
go on until one or the other of us shrieks for mercy.” 

“ What about the ice-cream and lemonade 
rights ? ” asked Mr. Sparks. 

“ I have no wish to be harsh or unreasonable,” 

265 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


I said. “ We will split them in a proportion of 
ninety-five per cent, to me, and five per cent, to 
yourself.” 

“ Good,” said Mr. Sparks. “ But perhaps you 
will pardon my asking, what well-known books 
have you written ? ” 

“ That,” I replied, “ is a matter which I am 
afraid I cannot discuss. But if I show you the 
receipt for my annual subscription to the London 
Society of Authors, I take it that that is as much as 
you, or any other agent, will require.” 

“ Quite,” said Mr. Sparks hastily. “ And now, 
if you will Step into the other room and dictate your 
life history and your views on prohibition, baseball, 
and disarmament to my stenographer, I will 
prepare the agreement at once.” 

“ Mr. Sparks,” I replied, “ you are a man after 
my heart. I may be wrong, but I think you are 
going to make your fortune out of this tour.” 

“ Mr. Gibson,” said Mr. Sparks, “ I am but 
serving the great cause of Anglo-Saxon Literature. 
We’ll Start you off at the Century Theatre on 
Sunday week.” 

In half an hour I had left the office with the 
signed agreement in my pocket, and the next ten 
days I spent in being photographed, in receiving 
representatives of the Press, in polishing up my 

266 


GIBSON’S LAST WORDS 


English accent, and in ordering a large supply of 
dress shirts. The time seemed to fly, for every 
moment was fully occupied, and at la£t the very 
day of my ledture had come, and I dtill hadn’t found 
the opportunity to prepare any notes. I realized 
that the job mud be taken in hand at once, and was 
judt moving to the telephone to ask that I should 
not be disturbed, when the bell rang and I heard 
Mr. Sparks’s voice on the line. 

“ Hello,” he said. “ I judt called up to tell you 
we’re sold right out for to-night, and I’ve got the 
Mayor to promise to introduce you. Are you 
feeling fit ? ” 

“ Yes,” I replied. “ Fit as a fiddle.” 

“ That’s fine,” said Mr. Sparks. “ Now what 
you want to do is ju£l to forget all about this 
evening, and get plenty of fresh air. I’m calling 
for you in an auto in half an hour, and you and I are 
going to have a day’s golf out at Sound View.” 

I didn’t like to tell him that I dtill hadn’t written 
my ledture, so there was nothing for it but to accept. 
I ran into my bedroom to change my clothes, and 
as soon as I was ready, the telephone rang again to 
say that Mr. Sparks was waiting. I dashed into the 
elevator, and in two more minutes we were off. 
We played two rounds of golf—both of which I 
won, though the second only at the twentieth hole 

267 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


—and then, as the evening shadows were beginning 
to fall, Mr. Sparks made a suggestion. 

“ Say,” he said, “ why don’t you ’phone the 
Plaza to send your clothes right around to the 
theater ? We’ll dine out here, and I’ll run you 
back so you’re ju£l in time for the show.” 

Again I found myself faced with the awkward¬ 
ness of admitting that my ledlure was Still un¬ 
prepared, but again I hesitated about confessing 
this. Mr. Sparks seemed to take my silence for 
consent. 

“ That’s the notion,” he said. “ And now I’ll 
juSt show what we can fix for you here in the way of 
a dinner.” 

It was certainly a very good meal, though I muSt 
say that I missed my alcohol. At about a quarter 
paSt seven we took our seats again in Mr. Sparks’s 
automobile, and Started off at a good pace for the 
city. 

I was now for the firSt time wondering if I 
hadn’t taken on more than I could manage. The 
audience would probably expedt me to speak for at 
leaSt an hour and a half, and it seemed impossible 
that I could keep up an extempore speech for 
anything like as long as this. I looked at Mr. 
Sparks’s efficient profile as he crouched over the 
Steering-wheel, but I saw no sign there which 

268 


GIBSON’S LAST WORDS 


could encourage me to tell him how I was situ¬ 
ated. I thought of pleading sudden illness, loss of 
memory, or loss of voice; but I literally hadn’t the 
courage. And besides, to back out at this ftage 
might mean the cancellation of my whole tour. 

“ Look here,” I said at laft, as we were crossing 
the Eaft River, “ do you think it would matter if I 
lectured to-night on My Six Months in Soviet 
Russia after all ? ” 

“ Why, what’s the idea ? ” asked Mr. Sparks. 

“ Oh, nothing,” I replied. “ Only I juft 
thought it might be better.” 

“ Forget it, then,” said Mr. Sparks, leaping on to 
his accelerator. “ Do you want me to wade five 
hundred dollars’ worth of special souvenirs ? Not 
on your life! ” 

I sat back in silence, and in another ten minutes 
we drew up at the ftage-door of the Century 
Theatre. In a kind of nightmare I left the car and 
entered the building. A valet from my hotel was 
waiting in my dressing-room with my evening 
clothes, and but for his assiftance I doubt if I 
should ever have succeeded in changing. 

“ I say,” I asked him, when at laft he had forced 
me into my coat, “ do you think you could possibly 
get me something to drink ? ” 

“ Sure,” said the valet, taking a small flask from 

269 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


his hip pocket. “ And seeing as it’s Sunday, I’ll 
only charge you ten dollars.” 

I slipped him a bill and took a deep draught. 
As the fiery liquid coursed down my throat, I felt 
my courage returning, and at this moment Mr. 
Sparks, accompanied by his stenographer, came 
back into the room. 

“ That’s right,” he said approvingly. “ A little 
bracer’s all you want, and you’ll do fine. Now 
come and let me introduce you to our Mayor.” 

I followed him down into the wings at the side of 
the Stage, where the introduction took place. But 
already the effects of my drink were beginning to 
wear off, and as the roar of thousands of voices 
reached me from the front of the house, I tottered 
and clutched at an iron ladder. 

“ JuSt come and have a look at them,” said Mr. 
Sparks, taking my arm. “ It’s certainly a great 
sight.” 

And it was. I suppose more cases of agora¬ 
phobia have developed in the vaSt auditorium of 
the Century Theatre than in any other building in 
the world. As I squinted through the little spyhole 
at that ocean of faces, my knees knocked together 
and my teeth chattered uncontrollably, while my 
tongue cleaved (or clave) to the roof of my mouth. 

“ There’s five thousand dollars there to-night, 

270 


GIBSON’S LAST WORDS 


if there’s a cent,” whispered Mr. Sparks. And 
then, taking out his watch, he added: “ Well, 
come on, Mr. Gibson. I guess we’d better make a 
Start.” 

With a heroic effort I detached myself from my 
agent’s support, and moved towards the Stage. 
The whole place seemed to be whirling about my 
head, and as for calling to mind a single Person 
Whom I Had Met, I could no more have done so 
at the moment than have flown. I heard Mr. 
Sparks addressing his laSt words to me, but not a 
trace of their meaning entered my brain. Then 
the stenographer seemed to be saying something, 
but I only smiled weakly at her and shook my 
head. 

But Still she Stood there, direStly in my way. 

“ That’s all right,” I managed to utter, waving 
her aside. 

She appeared to be trying to hand me something. 

“ No, no,” I said. “ I muStn’t have anything 
more to drink now. Afterwards, if you like. But 
certainly not now.” And I tried to dodge round 
her. 

“ I guess your English humour gets paSt me 
Mr. Gibson,” she retorted, Still blocking my path. 
“ But say, don’t you want your ledture ? ” 

“ My what ? ” I cried, Staggering back. 

271 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


“ Your ledture,” she repeated, and now I saw 
that what she had been pressing on me was a sheaf 
of typescript. 

“Good heavens!” I shouted. “You don’t 

mean to say- Here, give it me at once.” And 

snatching it from her hand I marched straight on to 
the Stage, while the whole colossal audience rose to 
their feet and cheered. 

If any of the New York papers for the following 
day ever came your way, there will be no need for 
me to describe the enthusiasm with which that firSt 
ledture on People Whom I Have Met was received. 
Mr. Sparks’s stenographer had gone far beyond 
anything that I should ever have dared to do myself. 
With the second page of her composition, where I 
found myself describing my breakfaSt with the 
Prime Minister in the Banqueting Hall at Bucking¬ 
ham Palace, I knew that I had that great-hearted 
audience with me. And though I was afraid at 
times that my surprise at some of the incidents 
which I was relating might find its way into my 
voice or expression, my fear proved groundless. 
For an hour and forty minutes, save for occasional 
ripples of appreciative laughter, the huge gathering 
remained tense and silent in their seats while, like 
Orpheus with his Lute, I fairly handed them out 
the goods. 


272 



GIBSON’S LAST WORDS 


Often as it had been repeated in other cities 
since, I shall never forget the scene at the conclu¬ 
sion of this opening ledture. The audience rose at 
me as one man; Union Jacks were waved from the 
boxes; flowers were showered down on to the £tage. 
Again and again I stepped forward to bow my 
thanks and gesticulate my desire to be allowed to 
go to bed; but it wasn’t until a patrol-waggon had 
been sent for and a number of my more enthusi¬ 
astic admirers cracked over the head with night¬ 
sticks that the theatre began to empty. And it was 
an hour after this before Mr. Sparks succeeded in 
getting me out of the building disguised in a fire¬ 
man’s uniform. 

“ Well, Mr. Gibson,” he said, when at laSt we 
were back in my sitting-room at the Plaza, “ you 
don’t want to worry about Soviet Russia juSt yet 
awhile. I reckon we can keep you going with 
to-night’s program for two years solid. Time 
enough to think about what happens next, after 
that. I hope you like the ledture, huh ? ” 

I realized from his tone how unnecessary my 
panic earlier in the evening had been, and that in 
providing me with the material for my discourse he 
was only following his own and all other agents’ 
cudtomary procedure. But I adapted myself 
quickly to this new discovery. 

273 


T 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


“ With a little polishing up,” I said, “ it will 
make as good a leSture as I’ve ever heard. And did 
your stenographer do it all herself ? ” 

“ Yes, sir,” said Mr. Sparks. 44 She’s a right 
smart girl at fixing a leSture.” 

44 She certainly is,” I replied. “ And perhaps 
you’ll be good enough to order her a dollar’s worth 
of cut flowers and charge it to my account.” 

44 Better make it fifty cents,” said Mr. Sparks. 
44 We don’t want that girl to Start giving herself 

• y y 

airs. 

Well, the next night I repeated my ledlure in the 
Symphony Hall at BoSton, and after that I worked 
across to Buffalo and so on all over the Middle 
WeSt. Everywhere that I went I had the same 
success, and gradually, as I became more familiar 
with my material, I dropped my notes altogether 
and, while Still relying on the Stenographer’s intro- 
dudtory remarks to get myself Parted, fell back, 
after this, pretty much on my own inspiration. 
Mr. Klauser, the manager whom Mr. Sparks was 
sending round with me, quite approved this 
arrangement, for he knew that it would help to 
prevent me getting Stale; and he was also good 
enough to give me one or two other hints which I 
have no doubt assisted to improve my delivery. 

274 


GIBSON’S LAST WORDS 


“ Pitch your voice right up to the top gallery, 
Mr. Gibson,” he said. “ But don’t make the 
mistake of following it with your eyes. Keep ’em 
on the centre of the orchestra seats. That’s where 
the big money’s sitting, and that’s where they’ll 
expedt to have you look. There’s many a good 
ledturer slipped up bad by getting too friendly with 
the cheap seats.” 

I adopted this suggestion at once. At the Idiot 
Asylum at Columbus (O.), where I was ledturing 
the next night, I picked out a powerful-looking 
man in about the twelfth row below the platform, 
and, keeping my eyes always fixed either on or near 
him, I found that my general sense of ease and my 
command of the audience were very much in¬ 
creased. At the end of the evening, when, as usual, 
my admirers swarmed up to shake me by the hand, 
I had an idea from this man’s expression, and 
perhaps partly from the Strength of his grip, that he 
had developed some more than special interest in 
me. But he confined himself to the conventional 
“ Pleased to meet you, Mr. Gibson,” and moved on 
again at once. In the rush of new faces he soon 
passed out of my mind. 

But the next night, at the Oddfellows’ Temple at 
Cincinnati, I hadn’t been on the platform for more 
than three minutes when, raising my eyes, I saw 

275 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


the same powerful-looking fellow again occupying 
a seat on the aisle in about the twelfth row. “ This 
is very gratifying,” I said to myself. “ I wonder 
who he can be.” But although he again came up 
at the end and shook my hand—a little more firmly 
this time—and again expressed his pleasure at 
meeting me, he added nothing more; ju£t slipped 
away in the crowd. 

The next evening I was lecturing again at the 
Commercial College at Lexington (Ky.), and there 
he was again. And for the reSt of the week, at the 
Indianapolis Propylaeum, the Terre Haute Poly¬ 
technic, and the Evansville City Hall, the firdt 
thing that I saw as I faced my audience was this 
same mysterious and powerful-looking Stranger. 
And each night he gripped my hand a shade more 
fiercely, murmured his delight at encountering me, 
and disappeared. 

For another ten days I dlood this extraordinary 
manifestation of devotion, and then I found that it 
was beginning to affedt my confidence. 

“ Look here,” I told Mr. Klauser. “ There’s a 
fellow with a high forehead and a big, blue jowl 
who sits in front every night, and comes up and 
shakes hands with me at the end. How long he’s 
been doing it for I don’t know; but I’ve noticed 

276 


GIBSON’S LAST WORDS 


him every evening for over a fortnight. Have you 
any idea what he can mean by it ? ” 

“ No,” said Mr. Klauser. “ I have not. But 
if he’s annoying you, juSt say the word, and I’ll 
have him slung out.” 

The following evening the man was there again, 
and at the end I pointed him out to Mr. Klauser. 

“ There he goes,” I said. “ That square¬ 
looking fellow over by the door.” 

“ You leave him to me,” replied Mr. Klauser. 

But whether the man had got wind of my 
manager’s intentions or not, the next night he was 
occupying his same seat, and this time he had on 
either side of him two equally powerful-looking 
companions who even accompanied him up to the 
platform at the end, and shook hands with me 
before and after my persecutor. 

“ I’m very sorry, Mr. Gibson,” said Mr. 
Klauser, when I reproached him for allowing this 
nuisance to continue. “ But those two guys who 
were with him to-night were a couple of Pinkerton’s 
men. I know’em well. I guess, if it’s all the same 
to you, we’d better leave things as they are. We 
don’t want anything getting in the papers.” 

“ What on earth do you mean ? ” I asked. 
“ Are you suggesting that Pinkerton’s could 
possibly have anything againSt me ? ” 

277 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


Mr. Klauser shrugged his shoulders offensively. 

“ I don’t know, I’m sure,” he replied. “ I 
reckon you’re the one that knows the answer to 
that.” 

“ This is intolerable,” I said angrily. “ I shall 
telegraph to your chief at once.” 

And I did. There should be no need to tell you 
that my conscience was absolutely clear, but the 
constant strain of my work was telling on my 
nerves. I sent a long and expensive message 
(“ collect ”) to Mr. Sparks, saying that unless he 
instantly supplied me with a new manager, cancelled 
the arrangements for the redt of my tour in the 
Middle Wed, and sent me out to the coadt, I would 
not be answerable for the consequences to Anglo- 
Saxon Literature. 

My threat had its immediate result. The next 
day Mr. Klauser was recalled to New York, two 
days later Mr. Mangel&etter arrived in his place, 
and the following morning we took our seats in my 
parlor-car, bound for Sacramento. Every time 
almost that the train flopped, I walked up and down 
the track looking for signs of my incubus and his 
myrmidons, but by the fourth day I was satisfied 
that we mu£t have shaken them off. The inex¬ 
plicable nightmare in which I had been living for 
nearly three weeks had passed into the unknown. 

278 


GIBSON’S LAST WORDS 


I slept soundly again at nights, and began putting 
on weight. 

And yet, if you will believe me, no sooner had I 
risen to my feet at the Episcopal Institute on the 
evening of my arrival at Sacramento, hardly had I 
cleared my throat to begin my exordium, than my 
eyes started out of my head as I saw my enemy, 
more powerful-looking than ever, sitting back with 
a faint sneer in the middle of the twelfth row. 

For a moment I all but broke down, and then, 
setting my teeth, I pulled myself together. Reso¬ 
lutely disregarding his presence, I addressed my 
remarks to every other part of the hall, and at ladt 
the evening concluded with the customary trium¬ 
phant ovation. 

But during the mechanical delivery of my lecture 
my mind had been busy. And when, as usual, the 
man joined in the crowd of congratulatory hand¬ 
shakers, I waited until his turn had come and then, 
instead of offering him my palm, I seized him by 
the wri£t. 

“ Wait,” I whispered hoarsely. “ I mud and 
will have an explanation from you.” 

He nodded his head carelessly, and dtood aside 
until the hall had emptied. I felt no fear of him 
now that the crisis had arrived—it would have been 
better perhaps if I had—and making some hadty 

279 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


excuse I let Mr. Mangelsletter go back to the hotel 
by himself. 

Then I turned to the man who was wait¬ 
ing. 

“ Follow me,” I said. 

Without a word he put on his hat and accom¬ 
panied me into the street. 

“ Now, then, sir,” I said, as we came out into the 
wide tree-bordered boulevard; “ perhaps you will 
furnish me with an explanation of your extraordin¬ 
ary behaviour in dogging my public appearances in 
this strange manner, in shaking my hand night 
after night, and in perpetually assuring me of your 
pleasure at getting to know me.” 

The man gave a short, mirthless laugh. 

“ I don’t want to shake your hand,” he said. 
“ Every time I try and get away without doing it. 
But it’s no use. I ju£t get £tuck in the crowd, and 
there’s no other way out.” 

“ Well, well,” I went on. “ Leaving that on one 
side, why come to my ledlure twenty-five times on 
end ? Let me tell you, sir, that I am performing a 
very arduous public duty. It’s no joke, I can assure 
you, speaking to these va£t congregations eight or 
nine times a week. Your constant presence is 
affefring both my nerves and my appetite. Why 
do you do it ? ” 


280 


GIBSON’S LAST WORDS 


“ You may well ask that,” replied the man, with 
a repetition of his unpleasant laugh. 

“ But I do ask it, sir,” I cried, disregarding his 
contemptible innuendo. “ I do ask it. And what is 
more, I ask why, on the occasion of my recent 
appearance at Nashville, you should choose to 
attend in the company of a couple of hired bravos 
from Pinkerton’s ? ” 

“ I got wind you were planning to fire me out,” 
he replied. 

“ And what if I was ? ” I retorted. “ Isn’t this a 
free country ? ” 

“ I guess it is,” he said grimly. “ It’s free 
enough for you English le£turers, anyway.” 

“ Explain yourself,” I demanded. 

“ That is my intention,” he answered. “ See 
here, Mr. Gibson, I’m a member of the American 
Authors’ League, and-” 

“ What ? ” I interrupted. “ American Authors ? 
But there aren’t such things. Surely I, as a literary 
man, should have heard of them if there were.” 

“ I reckon you mud take my word for it,” said 
my companion. “ Downtrodden and negledted as 
he is, eclipsed and overshadowed by the writers 
of your effete yet dangerous island, the American 
author £till exists and, let me add, is £till to be 
feared. Too long has the poor worm suffered this 

281 



ACCORDING TO GIBSON 

endless stream of foreign ledfurers, too long has he 
watched the very cream of the literary market 
being skimmed off by alien hands. For three 
weeks have I listened to your impertinent and 
untruthful account of your intimacies with the 
crowned heads of Europe, hoping perhaps that at 
la£t I should come on a single utterance which 
would justify me in commuting the terrible 
sentence which my League have passed on you. I 
have been patient; I have been scrupulously fair; 

I have endured such torments from your wearisome 
and shameless lips as few men, however strong, 
could survive. But to-night I have made up my 
mind. The League’s sentence mu£t be carried 
through. And even if I go to the dreaded chair, it 
will be with the knowledge that I have lit such a 
candle as by the mercy of heaven shall never be put 
out.” 

“ But £lop! Wait! ” I protected, edging away 
from him. “ Why should I suffer where so many 
others have gone free ? Even if you, with your 
boasted fairness, have failed to derive profit from 
my ledlures, what of the thousands, the millions of 
your fellow countrymen who have swarmed nightly 
to hear me speak; into whose blunted and com¬ 
mercialized lives I have brought a breath of sweet¬ 
ness, a ta£te of culture and romance ? ” 

282 


GIBSON’S LAST WORDS 


“ You are waging your breath,” he answered 
inexorably. “ Your doom has been pronounced 
by a higher tribunal than that of any mere le&ure 
fans.” 

“ No, no,” I cried. “ Be juSt. Be reasonable. 
No one on earth was ever meant to listen to my 
ledture twenty-five times running.” 

“ And no one on earth shall ever listen to it 
again,” he shouted. “ On your knees at once, you 
base-born boob, and ask, while there is Still time, 
that your sins may be forgiven. For as sure as 
to-morrow’s sun shall rise, in two minutes from now 
you will be among the immortals.” 

“ Mercy! Mercy! ” I wept, falling to the 
ground and clutching his legs. 

“ Never! ” he roared. “ Never until the laSt 
British literary man has been driven from my 
beloved country’s soil. The Authors’ League has 
spoken, and the Authors’ League mud be obeyed.” 

I felt the cold muzzle of his pistol pressing 
against my forehead; I gave a laSt, despairing 
shriek; there was a bur£t of thunder in my ears; 
and in another second the body of Henry Gibson 
lay a lifeless corpse on the blood-stained sidewalk, 
while his soul winged its way upwards through the 
scented night. 

Yes, my dear D. M., though I regret that I am 

283 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


unable to tell you what it is, I have solved the riddle 
of the universe. My earthly sufferings are over. 
I am at peace with the ages. 

I am sorry that my abrupt and unexpected 
method of quitting this sphere prevents my for¬ 
warding you the personal memento which I should 
have wished you to receive; but if you have any use 
for the copyright of any of my unpublished works, 
it is yours. See that the arch-fiend, Leamington 
Dunn, delivers it into your hands intact. 

Yours sincerely, 

Henry Gibson. 

jit at 

< 1 * * 1 ' 

And so this was the bet that Gibson could find 
to say to me after all my weeks and months of 
anxiety on his behalf. A tory which not only from 
the very outset transcended all limits of even 
Gibsonian improbability, but ended up with the 
impudent, if not actually blasphemous, tatement 
that the writer himself was dead. “ At peace with 
the ages,” indeed! And then he’d sat down, 
banged the whole thing out on a typewriter, and 
poted it nearly three hundred miles from the scene 
of his alleged murder. 

And all that tuff about his lectures, too. What 
did the creature take me for ? 

284 


GIBSON’S LAST WORDS 


Yet already I was growing calmer. I was even 
beginning to appreciate the undoubted humour of 
the thing. And as this mellower and kindlier 
mood descended on me, two main deductions 
seemed to suggest themselves as arising from this 
extraordinary missive. FirCt and moCt undeniably, 
that Gibson was Ctill as mad as a hatter. And 
secondly and perhaps less certainly, that he had 
chosen these peculiar means to let me know that he 
wasn’t coming back to England. 

Yes, though he Ctill refused to admit it direClly, 
that final reference to the disposition of his copy¬ 
rights showed clearly, to my mind, that he had 
counted on the “ arch-fiend Leamington Dunn ” 
acquainting me with his alias; and in so far as one 
could gauge the mental processes of a lunatic, this 
would be ample ground for the perpetuation of his 
exile. Whether the unwitnessed and poCt-mortem 
signature of a madman would possess any value in 
the eyes of a Court of Law was another point. But 
then, I didn’t want his copyrights. I had quite 
enough trouble with my own, and- 

I heard footsteps behind me, and thruCt the 
letter hurriedly into my pocket. 

“ Hullo,” said a familiar voice. “ Any 
news ? ” 

For a moment I hesitated, but Gibson had made 

285 



ACCORDING TO GIBSON 

no stipulation of secrecy. I withdrew my hand 
again. 

“ Yes,” I answered, passing the letter to Mr. 
Dunn. 

He read it in silence, no trace of expression 
marking his discovery of the references to himself, 
and then he returned it to me. 

“ Poor chap,” he said, and with his right fore¬ 
finger he tapped gently but significantly on his 
forehead. 

“ Yes,” I replied. “ But-” 

“ But what ? ” 

“ Well,” I tried to explain, “ he seems contented 
enough, doesn’t he ? I mean, after all, no writer 
can be really unhappy as long as his imagination 
Still Stays with him.” 

Mr. Dunn received this observation in thought¬ 
ful silence. But after a minute or so he said: 

“Anyhow, there’s no longer any reason why you 
shouldn’t let me have those Stories. As far as I can 
make out, he’s appointed you as his literary 
executor.” 

“ Oh,” I gasped. “ No. I mean, yes. I 
suppose he has.” 

And this is how these Tales from Gibson have 
come to be published. Not, it is true, exactly in the 

286 



GIBSON’S LAST WORDS 


manner that Leamington Dunn desired, for I have 
insisted on crediting them with their true author¬ 
ship. I couldn’t, as a conscientious writer, take the 
praise (or blame) for work which was not really my 
own. But if I have succeeded in transferring to 
these pages one hundredth part of the indescribable 
charm which emanated from my eccentric, yet 
gifted, fellow member, then I shall feel myself well 
repaid. Moreover, in the matter of terms, Mr. 
Dunn has certainly been as good as his word. 

I have never heard from Gibson again. I have 
never really expeCted that I should. But some¬ 
where on the wide face of this globe I can picture 
him £till, button-holing unsuspecting strangers and 
pouring his Ctrange medley of satire and invention 
into their defenceless ears; while all the time the 
royalties from the myriad works of Minnie Baker 
Sanderson continue to pile up in Leamington 
Dunn’s bank. 

And sometimes another thought has come to me. 
I know that he was once at Santa Barbara, for the 
evidence of the U.S. Mail on that postmark is 
unimpeachable. And is it thinkable that a man of 
Gibson’s nature could resist the temptation which 
would there be drawing him from less than a hun¬ 
dred miles away towards Pasadena and Holly¬ 
wood ? What if that nobler and wider existence 

287 


ACCORDING TO GIBSON 


of which he spoke were the freedom from the 
written word which is open to all men of creative 
imagination in the great studios of the land of 
celluloid ? Yes, I am dtill waiting, and waiting 
hopefully, for the Gibson touch to make itself felt 
through the medium of the film. There can be no 
doubt that I shall recognize it when it does. 

Meanwhile, I dtill often look towards that 
familiar chair in the Caviare smoking-room, half- 
hoping and half-dreaming that I shall see him there 
once again. But it is hard to preserve in one’s 
memory all the details even of such a personality as 
Henry Gibson’s, and there are days—rare at 
present, but they will become more frequent— 
when I am almost tempted to believe that he and 
his stories are both nothing more than the idle 
imaginings of my own fidtion-haunted mind. 


CHISWICK PRESS I CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND GRIGGS (PRINTERS), LTD. 
TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON. 














































